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Plays for Schools and Colleges 

AARON BOGGS, FRESHMAN 

By Walter Ben Hare. Comedy in 3 acts; 8 males, 8 
females. Time, 2^^ hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


AFTER THE GAME 

By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 2 acts; 1 male, 9 
females. Time, 1% hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


ALL A MISTAKE 

By W. C. Parker. Farce-comedy in 3 acts; 4 males, 4 
females. Time, 2 hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


ALL ON ACCOUNT OF POLLY 

By Harry L. Newton. Cop.*edy in 3 acts; 6 males, 10 
females. Time, 2 ^^ hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


AS A WOMAN THINKETH 

By Edith F. A. U. Painton. Comedy in 3 acts; 9 males, 
7 females. Time, 2^^ hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW 

By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 14 fe¬ 
males. Time, 2'/4 hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


CIVIL SERVICE 

By Walter Ben Hare. Drama in 3 acts; 6 males, 5 fe¬ 
males. Time, 2 % hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


THE CLASS SHIP 

By Edith F. A. U. Painton: Commencement Play¬ 
let; 3 males, 8 females. Time, 35 minutes. 

Price, 15 Cents. 


CLUBBING A HUSBAND 

By Edith F. A. U. Painton. Comedy in 3 acts; 12 fe¬ 
males. Time, 2 hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


A COLLEGE TOWN 

By Walter Ben Hare. Farce-comedy in 3 acts; 9 males, 
8 females. Time, 2^^ hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


THE DEACON ENTANGLED 

By Harry Osborne. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 4 fe¬ 
males. Time, 2 hours. Price, 25 Cents. 

THE FIFTEENTH OF JANUARY 

By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 11 males,^ 10 
females. Time, 2^4 hours. Price, 25 Cents. 


the GRADUATE’S CHOICE 

' By Edith F. A, U. Painton. Commencement playlet; 12 
females. Time, 35 minutes. Price, 15 Cents. 

T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO 




















1 


The Real Thing After All 


An After the War Comedy-Drama 
in Three Acts 





BY 


Lindsey Barbee 


AUTHOR OF 


** After the Game,’* "At the End of the Rainbow T ‘‘The Call of the 
Colors,” ”The Call of Wohelo,” ”The Dream That Came True,” 
"The Fifteenth of January,” "Then Greek Met Greek,” "Her 
First Scoop,” "The Kingdom of Heart’s Content,” "The 
Promise of Tomorrow,” ’’Sing a Song of Seniors,” ’’The Spell 
of the Image,” "The Thread of Destiny,” "Tomorrow at 
Ten,” "The Trial of Hearts,” "A Watch, a Wallet and a 
Jack of Spades,” "When the Clock Strikes Twelve,” 

"The Whole Truth, ” "In the College Days,” "Let’s 
Pretend — A Book of Children’s Plays,” etc. 



CHICAGO 

T. S. DENISON & COMPANY 

Publishers 







2 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


TO 

DAYTON DENIOUS 


AND 



EMMA BOUGHTON DENIOUS 
“Bobby” and “Aimee” 



NOTICE 

Production of this play is 
free to amateurs, but the 
sole professional rights are 
reserved by the author, who 
may be addressed in care of 
the Publishers, Moving pic¬ 
ture rights reserved. 


© 0.0 3 2373 


COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
LINDSEY BARBEE. 





THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 

FOR SEVEN MEN AND NINE WOMEN. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. ‘ 

{Named in order of appearance.) 


Bobby Winton.'. .A Youthful Soldier 

Ruth Meredith. With the Gift of Understanding 

Anne Meredith Winton. .In Love with Her Husband 

Kate. Mrs. Winton^s Mai:. 

Robert Winton. A Successful Lawyer 

Cecily Hargraves. Richard^s Fiancee 

Thomas Gregory. A Mystery 

Alison Page. Who is Clever 

Dennis. Who Emulates Sherlock Holmes 

Doris Thorne.. A War Bride 

Edward Thorne (“Ted”). . \ .A War Groom 

Captain Richard Winton. 

... Who Does the Unexpected 

Aimee. Little Bit of France'^ 

Miss Ward. Richard's Aunt a^d Housekeeper 

Fifi. A French Maid 

Roger Atherton. An American Aviator 

Time —After the Great War. 


Place —A Suburban Home. 

Time of Playing —Two Hours and Thirty Minutes. 

Act I. Garden of Richard Winton’s suburban 
home. A September day. 

Act H. Richard Winton’s den. Christmas Eve. 
Act hi. Same as Act H. 

Scene I —Christmas morning. 

Scene H— Candle-lighting time, 

3 


























4 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


STORY OF THE PLAY. 

Richard Winton, a young architect who has dis¬ 
tinguished himself in foreign service, returns home with 
Aimee, a wee French orphan, whom he has adopted. 
Richard’s fiancee, Cecily Hargraves, a spoiled and su¬ 
perficial society, girl, resents his affection for the child 
and finally breaks the engagement because he refuses 
to give her up. Richard wins the Civic Prize offered 
for the best design for an Auditorium, and inspired 
with a boyish desire “to see the first big thing” which 
he has ever earned, cashes the check for twenty-five 
thousand dollars and locks the money in his desk. Sev¬ 
eral robberies in the neighborhood remain unsolved, and 
Dennis, one of the Winton servants, fastens suspicion 
upon Thomas Gregory, a stranger in the vicinity, who 
is a member of Richard’s Christmas house party. Mrs. 
Winton’s pearls disappear; another guest loses a jew¬ 
eled bracelet, and as a climax comes the removal of the 
money in the desk. After many complications the theft 
of the jewels is traced to Aimee’s French nurse, and the 
astonishing discovery is made that Richard—walking 
in his sleep—has hidden his money in a secret panel of 
the mantelpiece. Gregory proves to be the mysterious 
aviator with whom Alison Page—a friend of the Win¬ 
ton family—has been corresponding, and Richard, in 
his search for the real thing in life, finds his happiness 
in the love of the quiet little Ruth whose Comradeship 
and encouragement have always meant so much to him. 


SYNOPSIS FOR PROGRAM. 

Act I. Dick’s expectant family await his return 
from France. Successive robberies in the neighborhood 
inspire Dennis to play detective. An accident—a war 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


5 


bride and groom—a telegram—and an unexpected “bit 
of France” help to make the week-end memorable. 

Act II. The Christmas house party is enlivened by 
a bride-and-groom quarrel, a loss of jewels, a confes¬ 
sion, a broken engagement and a robbery of the desk. 

Act III. Christmas morning finds Cecily gone. 
Atherton’s arrival brings a new complication of affairs. 
Gregory’s identity is established, the jewels are recov¬ 
ered, Bobby solves the mystery and Dick finds “the real 
thing after all.” 


CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES. 

Ruth —Sweet, quiet, gracious and winning in man¬ 
ner. Summer or sport gown in I; evening gown in II; 
afternoon gown in III. 

Anne —Of charming dignity and poise. Summer or 
sport gown in I; elaborate evening gown in II; after¬ 
noon gown in III. 

Cecily —Spoiled, impatient, selfish and shallow. 
Summer gown in I; elaborate evening gown in II. 

Alison —Clever, quick at repartee, independent. 
Summer gown with motor coat and hat in I; evening 
gown in II; afternoon gown in III. 

Doris-; —Talkative, childish and vivacious. Tailor suit 
and hat in I; evening gown in II; afternoon gown in III. 

Miss Ward —With a keen sense of humor. Evening 
gown in II; afternoon gown in III. 

Kate —Assertive. Conventional maid’s costume— 
black with sheer white apron, collar and cuffs. Small 
white cap. Coat and hat in latter part of III. 

Fifi —Coquettish in II; hard and indifferent in III. 




6 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Maid’s costume with nurse’s frilled cap; high-heeled 
slippers. Coat, hat in latter part of III. 

Aimee —Plain little dress and bonnet in I; elaborate 
little dresses in II and III. Socks and slippers. Night¬ 
gown in latter part of II. 

Robert —Attractive and genial. White trousers, 
dark coat, white shoes in I; tuxedo in II; morning suit 
in III. 

Gregory —A trifle reserved, matter-of-fact, polished. 
Summer suit in I; tuxedo in II; morning suit in III. 

Ted —Unemotional, boyish. Uniform in I; tuxedo in 
II; morning suit in III. 

Dick —Impulsive, boyish and yet thoroughly manly. 
Uniform in I; tuxedo in II; business suit in III. 

The Publishers advise that the military costumes have 
such variations as not to interfere in any way with the 
Government regulations regarding the wearing of uni¬ 
forms. It is, of course, inferred that such costumes 
will be procured from a costumer who undoubtedly will 
be able to supply something that will answer the pur¬ 
pose and avoid any criticism. 

Dennis —Happy-go-lucky, mysterious in his dealings 
with Gregory. Sailor suit in I; dark trousers and white 
coat in II and III. 

Atherton —Easy and gracious in manner. Busi¬ 
ness suit, overcoat and hat. 

Bobby —Pretty suits throughout the play; slippers 
and socks. Pajamas in latter part of II; coat and hat 
in latter part of III. 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


7 


PROPERTIES. 

Act I. Seat, swing or hammock. Table, settee, stool 
and chair, all of wicker. Pillow for swing. Trees, 
flowers, etc. Checker board and men for Bobby and 
Ruth. Knitting bag and yarn for Anne. Tray with 
pitcher of lemonade and glasses for Kate. Paper for 
Cecily. Letter for Alison. Two traveling bags for 
Dennis. Two traveling bags, telegram and pipe for 
Ted. 

Act II. Rugs, draperies for doors. Table. Man¬ 
tel with candlesticks and box of cigarettes. Andirons 
for grate. Davenport with pillows. Small settee. 
Desk with telephone, electrolier, etc. Gauze, peroxide 
and needle book for one drawer of desk. Package in 
locked drawer. Desk chair. Hassock. Large and elab¬ 
orately decorated Christmas tree. Holly and mistletoe. 
Large chair. Pin for Miss Ward. Holly and mistletoe 
for Dennis. Stockings and flashlight for Aimee and 
Bobby. Ring for Cecily. Scarf for Doris. 

Act hi. Stepladder. Toys for children, including 
doll and doll carriage for Aimee. Horn for Bobby. 
Mechanical game for Jlobert. Keys and watch for Dick. 
A gift for each character on stage as curtain rises. 
Cook book for Doris. Handkerchief and matches for 
Ruth. Handkerchief for Alison. Package of letters 
and ring for Gregory. Note for Kate and handbag 
containing string of pearls and jeweled bracelet for Fifi. 



8 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Scene Plot. 


Act I. 



Hedge 


□ Chair 


Hedge 



Table 

Stool □ O 


Settee 


Acts II and III. 


/O 


Table 


Christmas 

Tree 


LIU 




1 


Davenport 

□ Hassock 

Mantel 


Chair □ 


Desk 
Chair □ 




STAGE directions. 

• 

R. means right of stage; C., center; R. C., right cen¬ 
ter; L., left; 1 E.y first entrance; U. E., upper entrance; 
R. 3 E., right entrance, up stage; D. F., door in flat, or 
scene running across the back of the stage, etc.; up 
stage, away from footlights; down stage, near foot¬ 
lights. The actor is supposed to be facing the audience. 


















THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


The First Act. 

Scene: A part of the lawn adjoining Richard 
Winton’s suburban home. Landscape drop for back¬ 
ground. A close-cut hedge runs along back of stage 
and down L., with opening at C. in L. To the left off 
stage is presumably a public road, while the house itself 
is approached from the right. (If feasible, a drop 
depicting a house with door, porch and steps may be 
placed diagonally at R. U. E. If this is done, the door 
becomes entrance otherwise designated as R.) At C. is 
placed a stationary swinging seat with low back. (A 
long garden seat may be used.) At L. 9^ E. is a small 
wicker settee; to its right a low wicker table on which 
is a checker board with checkers. R. of table is wicker 
stool. At R. 9 E. is a large wicker chair. Grass, trees, 
flowers, etc. 

Curtain rises on Ruth on settee and Bobby on stool, 
deeply engrossed in a game. 

Bobby. It’s your move, Aunt Ruth. 

Ruth (hesitating). But, Bobby, where can I move.^^ 
You have me cornered. (Moves.) There! 

Bobby. Now I’ve got you! Just as the Yanks got 
the Germans! Say, Aunt Ruth, let’s pretend that I’m 
the American Army and you’re the German Army. 

Ruth. But I don’t want to be the German Army. 

Bobby. You’ve got to be. You’re licked. (Rises and 
kneels on stool.) 

Ruth. Then that just about ends everything, 
doesn’t it.? 


9 



10 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Bobby. Everything except—unconditional surren¬ 
der ! 

Ruth {raising hands). Very well—I surrender. 

Bobby {pushing checkers to center of hoard). Let’s 
play it all over again. 

Ruth. But— this time—I may win. 

Bobby. You can’t—you’re the German Army. 

Ruth. It isn’t fair to make me the enemy twice in 
succession. {Settles hack.) Anyway, the war’s over. 

Bobby. You don’t like to play fighting games, do 
you. Aunt Ruth? 

Ruth. Why should I? I’m a woman. 

Bobby {scornfully). And women can’t fight! 

Ruth. Oh, can^t they? There are many ways of 
fighting, Bobby boy. 

Bobby. Making bandages isn’t fighting; knitting 
sweaters isn’t, either. 

Ruth. Well, it’s playing the game. 

Bobby. But it isn’t firing a cannon or shooting a 
gun. 

Ruth. Just the same, Bobby, there’s always a girl 
behind the man behind the gun. 

Bobby. Well, I don’t believe Uncle Dick needed any 
girl to help him shoot. 

Ruth. You just ask him—when he comes home. 

Bobby. Isn’t it bully to think that he is coming 
home ? 

Ruth. It’s wonderful, Bobby, and it’s still more 
wonderful to know that he is safe and sound. 

Bobby. Do you suppose he’ll bring me a German 
helmet ? 

Ruth. A dozen of them. 

Bobby. And will he let me wear his cross of war? 

Ruth. Of course he will. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


11 


Bobby {rising excitedly). Gee—but it was brave to 
bring in that wounded officer when the old Germans 
were firing right at him—it was awfully brave, wasn’t 
it, Aunt Ruth? 

Ruth. To risk one’s life for somebody else is the 
bravest thing in the world, Bobby boy. You ought to 
be pretty proud of Uncle Dick. 

Bobby. You bet I am. (Turns as —) 

Anne, with knitting hag^ enters at R. 

Bobby. Here’s mother! (Runs to her.) 

Anne. So this is where you two people have hidden 
yourselves! I hope you’ve captured a stray breeze in 
your particular corner. 

Bobby. We’ve captured something better than a 
breeze. 

Anne. And what is that? 

Bobby, (pointing to Ruth). The German Army. 

Anne (laughing). You seem doomed to always por¬ 
tray the part of the enemy, Ruth. 

Ruth. Bobby thinks I’m quite a success in the role. 

Anne. Doubtful flattery. 

Ruth. Exactly. (As Anne seats herself by Ruth.) 
We’ve been talking of Dick’s homecoming. (Bobby 
pushes stool to C. and seats himself.) 

Anne. And I’ve been thinking of it. In his usual 
evasive way, Dick didn’t give us exact details concern¬ 
ing his return, but the boat on which I think he sailed 
docked yesterday. 

Ruth. Dick loves surprises and he’ll doubtless ap¬ 
pear just when we least expect him. 

Anne. Won’t it be fun to exploit our young cap¬ 
tain with his wound of honor and his Croix de Guerre? 

Ruth. Wearing laurels and being a hero won’t ap¬ 
peal to Dick. 



12 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Anne. Why not? Every man is human. 

Ruth. But every man isn’t a boy. And Dick— 
like Peter Pan—will never grow up. 

Bobby {who has been seriously thinking). Mother, 
I wish we had a service flag. 

Anne. Why, Bobby, we have. With Uncle Dick’s 
own particular star upon it. 

rioBBY. But that isn’t exactly likd having daddy’s 
own particular star, is it? 

Anne. Daddy couldn’t go, dear; yoU know that. 
He had us to take care of. 

Bobby. But Johnny Jones’ dad went—and there’s 
nobody to take care of them—and they live in a little 
house—and they haven’t any money—and— 

Anne. Bobby, a man can serve his country without 
wearing a uniform. 

Bobby {rising and going to Anne). But, motlier— 

Anne {with her arm around him). Don’t worry 
about things you don’t understand, dear. Now run 
along and ask Kate to bring us the coldest lemonade she 
can make. 

Bobby. What about my prisoner? 

Anne. Oh, I’ll keep an eye on the enemy. 

Bobby. He’s a pretty slippery customer. 

Anne. But he has a Yank guarding him—and that 
makes all the difference in the world. Now hurry up, 
brave soldier. (Bobby rims off at K.) Ruth, how 
many people are chinking that very same thing? 

Ruth. What do you mean? 

Anne. Just what Bobby said. 

Ruth. The war is over, my dear sister. People 
aren’t doing the same amount of thinking. 

Anne. Don’t evade the question. 

Ruth. Then—to be frank—I suppose some people 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


13 


did wonder why as successful a man as Robert Winton 
couldn’t run the common risk— 

Anne {rising). Ruth! 

Ruth. You asked me to be frank. 

Anne. But— 

Ruth {as she draws Anne down beside her). Wait 
just a minute until I finish my sentence. I meant to 
add that any second thought would have satisfied the 
doubter concerning Bob’s patriotism. 

Anne. Somebody had to do war work in this 
country. 

Ruth. Of course. 

Anne. And if there hadn’t been home effort the war 
never could have been won. 

Ruth. Never. 

Anne. But people love to criticize, and when Dick 
comes home there’ll be comparisons—oh, I know it I 
We’ll hear nothing but Dick’s triumphs, Dick’s praises 
and Dick’s experiences! 

Ruth. Anne, I’m ashamed of you. You’re jealous. 

Anne. I’m not jealous. I just don’t want Dick to 
have anything which Bob hasn’t. 

Ruth. But that isn’t fair to Dick, and if all these 
honors had come to Bob, Dick would be the very first 
to be happy with him. Now, wouldn’t he.^ 

Anne. Yes—but— 

Ruth. Nobody in the world has a sunnier disposi¬ 
tion than Dick—you know it, Anne. Nobody is more 
generous, more loyal to his friends— 

Anne. And nobody is more impulsive. You’ll have 
to acknowledge it. 

Ruth. Impulsiveness isn’t a crime. 

Anne. But it’s a decided inconvenience. Dick al¬ 
ways does the unexpected. 



14 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Ruth. Doing the unexpected is often the charm of 
life. 

Anne. Oh, is it.^^ Perhaps you think it was the 
proper thing for Dick to give up his last year of college, 
forfeit his degree— 

Ruth. And give the money he would have spent to 
a classmate whose health depended on a change of cli¬ 
mate.^ I do—I decidedly do. 

Anne. It was visionary and impractical. 

Ruth. But it saved the man’s life—and he paid 
back the money-—every cent. 

Anne. Still, that particular year could never come 
back to Dick. Its opportunities were gone—it was a 
loss. 

Ruth. You mean—a gain. 

Anne. The next disappointment was his profession. 
Bob had always planned for Dick to share his law prac¬ 
tice. But no. Off he went to Paris to study archi¬ 
tecture. 

Ruth {leaning forward). But, Anne, Dick was des¬ 
tined to be an architect or an artist. Anyone who is so 
keenly alive to beauty must find expression for it. His 
work has proved the wisdom of his choice. 

Anne. Then the crowning rashness of his career has 
been his engagement to Cecily Hargraves. 

Ruth. I shouldn’t call it that. 

Anne {placing arm around Ruth’s shoulder). When 
Bob and I had so hoped and believed that it would be— 
you. 

Ruth {quietly). Dick never cared for me in that 
way, Anne. I was just his pal—his sister so to speak— 
somebody whose friendship and companionship was a 
matter of course. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


15 


Anne. Love sometimes masquerades as friendship, 
Ruth. 

Ruth. Not in this case. Men don’t fall in love with 
me, Anne—they never have. 

Anne. Nonsense. A sensible girl like you! {With- 
draivs arm.) 

Ruth. That’s just it—I’m sensible. Theoretically, 
a man admires what he calls common-sense, but in reality 
he yields every time to the capricious creature of a 
thousand moods. 

Anne. Not quite so bad as that. 

As Kate enters from R. with lemonade. 

Anne. I hope you used the coldest ice you could 
find, Kate. {Takes checker board from table.) 

Kate. I came pretty nearly not finding any at all, 
Mrs. Winton. That good-for-nothing Dennis had for¬ 
gotten to fill the ice box. {Places tray on table.) 

Ann^:. And I’ve w^eek-end guests. 

Kate {as she pours lemonade into two glasses and 
hands them to Ruth and Anne.) Don’t worry. I’ve 
just telephoned for enough to last till Monday. You’ll 
excuse me for saying it, Mrs. Winton, but ever since 
Dennis was dismissed from service, I’ve had to use brain 
power for two. 

Anne. What’s the matter with Dennis.^ 

Kate {at C.). Just what’s the matter with a lot of 
soldiers and sailors whose heads have been turned by a 
little notice. Between thinking that he’s the only Jacky in 
captivity, and that all the girls are crazy over him, 
he’s all swelled up. 

Ruth. But Kate—I thought you and Dennis were 
en—well, I thought you were wearing a service pin for 
him. 

Kate. I was. Miss Ruth; but it seems that in most 



16 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


every town some girl has been doing the same thing. 
We’re just beginning to find out about each other. 

Anne {laughing). And Dennis thinks the war’s over! 
(Pauses.) Where is he this afternoon 

Kate. Joining in the town celebration for the boys 
who are back from the front. Oh, it ain’t his company 
and he don’t know a one of ’em, but he’s the biggest 
man in the bunch. 

Ruth. But why shouldn’t he think of himself now— 
he thought of his country first. 

Kate. That’s all right. Miss Ruth, and I ain’t be¬ 
grudging Dennis any pleasure he can get out of cele¬ 
brations, for he didn’t hesitate about doing his bit— 
and I don’t mind saying that he does set off that sailor 
suit! 

Anne. Things will adjust themselves, and all the 
boys will soon settle down to old familiar ways. Just 
wait and see. 

Kate. Well, there won’t be much settling, Mrs. 
Winton, until a lot of these boys are taught that life 
ain’t just a big parade with a brass band, a movie 
camera and eats along the way. France ain’t the only 
place that needs reconstructing. (Pauses.) Anything 
else, Mrs. Winton 

Anne (handing her the checker board.) Take this in 
the house. (Kate takes hoard and starts off R.) 

Ruth. Kate ? 

Kate (turning). Yes, Miss Ruth.^^ 

Ruth. If I were you I’d wear the service pin a 
little longer. Maybe those other girls have promised to 
be—just sisters! 

Kate. I ain’t so afraid of them as I am of those 
French croquettes he’s left behind. (Exit R.) 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


17 


Ruth {laughingly). Men are a great worry, aren’t 
they ? 

All but one. 

And the incomparable one.^^ 

Bob, of course. 

But even Bob is something of a worry, isn’t 


Anne. 

Ruth. 

Anne. 

Ruth. 

he.f^ 

Anne. 

Ruth. 


What do you mean.? 

That he is responsible for a little wrinkle 
in your forehead which comes when you think nobody’s 
looking. 

Anne. A wrinkle doesn’t necessarily mean a worry. 

Ruth. This one does. 

Anne. How do you know.? 

Ruth. Because I have a sixth sense, 
which gives me a second sight. 

Anne. Sixth sense and second sight, 
exceedingly mathematical.? 

Ruth. No —just human. Come now 
trouble.? 

Anne. 

Ruth. 

Anne. 

Ruth. 

Anne. 


dear Anne, 
Aren’t you 
what’s the 


Bob. 

He doesn’t seem himself, does he.? 

You’ve noticed it.? 

How could I help it.? 

He’s absent-minded—nervous—depressed at 
times. And that isn’t like Bob. 

Ruth. Some law case is perplexing him. 

I hardly think so. 

Or the responsibility of managing Dick’s 


Anne. 

Ruth. 

affairs. 

Anne. 

aging. 

Ruth. 

Anne. 


Nonsense. Dick’s affairs don’t need man- 

Dick gave Bob power of attorney, didn’t he.? 
Of course. 



18 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Ruth. Has it ever occurred to you that he might 
be speculating? 

Anne. Speculating ? Impossible! I wonder that you 
mention such a thing! 

Ruth. Many men speculate, don’t they? 

Anne. Well—Bob doesn’t. 

Ruth. How do you know? 

Anne. Because he would have told me. 

Ruth. Do husbands tell their wives everything? 

Anne. Mine does. {Pauses.) What makes you 
think that he’s speculating? {Places glass on table.) 

Ruth. I don’t think he’s speculating. I said he 
might be. 

Anne. But why? 

Ruth. He seems interested in the stock market— 
that’s all. 

Anne. I don’t believe a word of it. 

Ruth. Then I don’t either. {Places glass on table.) 
So smooth the wrinkle from your brow and we’ll diag¬ 
nose Bob’s case as temporary indigestion. {Laughingly 
catching up her glass.) Let’s drink to his health! 

Enter Robeet from R. with Bobby on his shoulder. 

Robert. Discovered! And with the goods! {As 
Bobby slips to the ground.) Thought they could put 
something over on us, didn’t they, sonny? {They come 
to C.) 

Anne. Where’s Cecily ? 

Robert. Just where we left her. 

Anne. But I wanted you to entertain her. 

Robert. And I got tired of the job. {Seats himself 
in swing .) 

Anne. But— 

Robert. Don’t you worry. Cecily is never alone 
when she has herself. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


19 


Anne. Bobby, dear, go tell her where we are. 

Bobby. Oh, must we have her around.^ 

Anne. Don’t ever say that again. You must re¬ 
member that she is to marry Uncle Dick—and that she 
will be your aunt. 

Bobby. I don’t want her for an aunt. (^Crosses and 
goes hack of Ruth.) Why couldn’t Uncle Dick marry 
yoUy Aunt Ruth.? 

Ruth {in confusion). Why—Bobby—I’m already 
your aunt—and Uncle Dick’s already your uncle. And 
nothing could make me any more of an aunt than it 
could make Dick any more of an uncle. 

Bobby {walking slowly hack of settee). I don’t 
know what you mean. 

Robert. Neither do I—but that’s the way with 
women, sonny. You never know what they mean. 

Bobby {standing between settee and Robert). They 
can’t get ahead of us men, can they, daddy.? 

Robert. Well, I should say not. They may think 
they can, but we know. 

Anne. Run along, dear, and ask Miss Cecily to join 
use here. Now do it prettily. 

Robert. And take your time. 

Bobby. But I don’t want to go. 

Ruth. Remember that in service a soldier’s first 
duty is obedience. (Bobby hesitates^ then salutes and 
marches out at R.) 

Anne. Bob, it’s dreadful the way you talk about 
Cecily. 

Robert. You think it and I talk it—that’s the only 
difference. 

Anne. Of course, I don’t approve of everything 
she does, but she’s Dick’s choice and we have no right 
to say a word. 



20 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Ruth. Aren’t you rather hard on Cecily.? She’s 
young and her head has been a little turned by exces¬ 
sive adoration. 

Robert. A little turned. You put it charitably. 

Ruth. She’ll settle down and make Dick a good 
wife—for she is in love with him. 

Anne. But is she in love with anybody but herself? 

Robert. Most emphatically and decidedly— no, 

Ruth. Then why did she choose Dick? She had 
older and wealthier suitors. 

Robert. Everybody falls for the kid—and she 
couldn’t help herself. He was crazy about her from the 
first—and swept her off her feet before she realized it. 

Anne. But—will it last? 

Ruth. Give her a chance—and she’ll soon become 
interested in her own home. 

Robert. I have great respect for your opinion, 
Ruth, but in my wildest flights of fancy I can’t imag¬ 
ine my future sister-in-law a bundle of domesticity. 

Anne. Beauty and charm may win a man—but it 
takes brains to hold him. 

Robert. What do you mean by that cryptic re¬ 
mark? You haven’t had any trouble holding me. 

Anne. Well—what do you mean by insinuating 
that I haven’t brains? 

Robert. I don’t want you to have brains. You’re 
quite perfect as you are. 

Anne {rising and seating herself hy him). Worse 
and worse and worse. Hold this yarn for me. {Takes 
yarn from hag.) I’ve noticed that you don’t talk so 
much when you’re at work. 

Robert {as he draws the stool to her feet and takes 
the yarn). Bright colors for a change! It seems odd 
for you to be handling anything but army yarn. 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


21 


{Softly.) You had on a dress just this color, Anne, the 
night I lost my heart to you. 

Anne. Oh, Bob, do you remember so far back.'^ 

Robert. Remember? Why I can shut my eyes and 
call to mind everything you’ve ever worn—every word 
you’ve ever said—every smile you’ve ever given me. 

Anne {putting right arm around his neck). Bob— 
you dear old thing! 

Robert. And every day of my life I wonder how 
fate happened to send you good-for-nothing me. 

Anne. Good-for-nothing 1 Why, Bob, dear, I’ve 
been trying for years to live up to you! 

Ruth. Would you like me to move on.? 

Robert. Not a bit of it. This is merely a practical 
demonstration of “How to be happy though married.” 
We hope that it impresses you. 

Ruth. To the extent that I feel like a Peri with¬ 
out the gates. 

Robert. Then get inside. 

Ruth. Alas, I can’t do it myself. 

Robert. Try vamping Gregory—he’s all kinds of 
a good chap. 

Ruth. Vamping isn’t my long suit. And who is 
Gregory.? 

Anne {taking her arm from Robert’s neck). Oh, 
Ruth, I forgot to tell you! He is the newcomer who has 
rented the Porter estate—next to us you know—and 
Bob asked him over for the week-end. 

Robert. He’s a stranger in these parts—is taking 
a rest cure, I fancy—and lives quite alone with his man. 
Very reticent as to his past and present. 

Anne. You’re sure it’s all right to ask him.? 

Robert. Perfectly. He’s unmistakably a gentle¬ 
man—and I like him. 



22 


THE REAL THIKG AFTER ALL 


Ruth. Who are the other guests, Anne.?^ 

Anne. Alison Page. 

Ruth. Oh, I’m glad! 

Anne. And the Thornes. 

Robert. How’s that marriage turning out? 

Anne. As well as can be expected when you con¬ 
sider that the bride knew the groom exactly four days 
before he sailed for France. 

Robert. By the way, did I tell you that Alison was 
run in again yesterday? 

Ruth. For speeding? 

Robert. Speeding—and some other motor stunts. 
She’s getting to be quite well-known in the police courts. 

Anne {laughing). Poor old Alison. Her war work 
seems to be hoodoo-ed. Her gauze work was discarded; 
her canned vegetables fermented; she’ll probably be 
forced to leave the motor corps if this continues and— 
what became of the soldier she adopted, Ruth? 

Ruth. The adoption still holds, I believe. 

Robert. Anybody else in our party? 

Cecily appears from R. 

Anne. Just Cecily. 

Cecily {crossing). Who’s talking about me? (Rob¬ 
ert rises.) 

Ruth. All of us. And wishing that Dick would 
come while we’re having this week-end together. 

Cecily {seating herself R. ^ E.). He’ll telegraph us, 
surely. I hate surprises. 

Robert. Dick loves them—so he may appear at any 
moment. {As he sees the paper which she carries.) Any 
news of incoming ships? 

Cecily. I didn’t look. {Hands paper.) Do you 
want the paper? 

Robert. Please. {As he opens it.) We’ll be pretty 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


23 


glad to have the kid back again, won’t we, Cecily? And 
we’re pretty proud of everything that he’s done over 
there. (Sits.) 

Cecily. I’m glad he didn’t lose an arm or a leg. It 
would be so embarrassing to go about with him. 

Ruth. Embarrassing! It would be like trailing 
clouds of glory. 

Cecily. You have such queer notions, Ruth. 
(Yawns.) Gracious, but it’s hot! I wouldn’t mind 
some lemonade. (Ruth pours lemonade, brings it to 
her and returns to settee, sitting on arm.) And would 
you mind throwing me a pillow, Anne? (Anne throws 
pillow.) Bob? 

Robert (without raising his eyes from the paper). 
Yes? 

Cecily. Can you stop reading long enough to get 
me a footstool? (Robert pushes stool toward her.) 

Anne. Think of it’s being September—and this 
perfect summer day— 

Cecily. It’s so still out here in the country. One 
can almost hear the silence. 

Anne. That’s why we love it so. We’ll be loth to 
relinquish Dick’s property even to the rightful owner— 
won’t we, Bob? 

Cecily. Diehls property? 

Robert. Certainly. We are merely holding it down 
for him. 

Cecily. But I thought Dick owned the city home. 

Robert. Just the other way. The city house was 
left to us—and whenever we can we escape here. 

Cecily. Then if you like it so well—why not trade? 

Robert (looking at Anne). Trade? I can just hear 
Dick’s reply to such a proposition. 

Cecily. You mean that he— likes —it here ? 



24 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Robert. Likes Why, it’s the joy of his exist¬ 
ence. 

Cecily {looking off R.). But the house is dreadfully 
old-fashioned. 

Robert. Don’t tell that to Dick. For there’s some¬ 
thing about the architecture which—from a professional 
standpoint—is just what it should be. 

Cecily {'pettishly). I don’t know anything about 
architecture. 

Robert {cheerfully). Better learn, then, for Dick 
talks it all the time. And this will be your home, you 
know. 

Cecily. Oh, I just can’t live here. I’m used to 
amusements—people— 

Robert. You won’t miss those things when you 
liave—Dick. 

Cecily. Dick can’t take the place of—everything. 

Anne. Bob’s .teasing you, Cecily. You need not 
live an absolutely solitary life just because your home 
is here. It takes only a half hour to motor to the city— 
the roads are good—and— 

Cecily. But it’s so frightfully lonely. 

Anne. As Bob says—you’ll have Dick. 

Cecily. Dick surely won’t be so selfish as not to 
think of my wishes. 

Ruth. Dick is never selfish. 

Cecily. And he can’t expect me to be interested in 
the dry old things he’s so crazy about. 

Ruth. Dick deserves all that you can give him, 
Cecily, and more. Don’t disappoint him. 

Cecily. Seems to me, Ruth, that you’re mightily 
concerned about Dick. Why didn’t you appropriate 
him for yourself 

Ruth {coming hack of stage to Cecily). Don’t be 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


25 


angry, Cecily. (Sits on arm of chair.^ Dick is just like 
my brother, you know. (Gaily.) And as to appropri¬ 
ating liim, what chance has a sober little moth by the 
side of a shining butterfly 

Cecily (condescendingly). Then why don’t you 
liven up a bit? But I don’t suppose you care for men— 
you sensible girls don’t. 

Robert (who—with Anne — has been reading paper). 
There’s been another robbery in this part of the coun¬ 
try. That makes three right around us. 

Cecily (anxiously). Not around here? 

Robert. Sure. Clever chap, too. Doesn’t leave a 
trace of his identity. 

Cecily. It doesn’t seem possible that anything can 
happen in this quiet place. One never hears a sound— 
(shriek off L. All hut Cecily rise.) 

Robert. What on earth is that? (Rushes to L. and 
looks off stage.) Some man knocked down by a car— 
woman driving, of course. (Looks more closely.) Great 
heavens—it’s Alison ! ( Turns.) I’ll bring him in here, 
Anne. Better get everything ready for a bad case— 
Alison does things thoroughly. (Rushes off L.) 

Anne (at C.). Oh, dear—I’ve been afraid of this! 
Alison’s mind is a thousand miles away from that steer¬ 
ing wheel—and she’s too busy with a sonnet or a triolet 
to notice such unfortunate beings as pedestrians. 

Cecily. I hate clever literary women—and so do the 
men. 

Anne (crossing to Cecily.) We won’t stop to argue 
that. Ruth, find Kate and meet me in the south guest 
room. (Ruth hurries off R.) Cecily, telephone Dr. 
Brent—he’s the nearest physician—and tell him to 
hurry. 




26 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Cecily {pettishly^ as she follows Anne off R.). Why 
couldn’t she have run down a woman—men are so scarce. 

Stage clear for a moment. Then enter Gregory sup¬ 
ported on either side hy Robert and Alison. 

Robert. Too bad your welcome had to take this 
particular form, Gregory. 

Gregory. Hardly that. If it hadn’t been for tlic 
intervention of fate I should have arrived just as any 
ordinary guest. Now I’m making a dramatic entry, and 
all my life I’ve been longing for a dramatic entry. 

Alison. It’s charitable of you to call it the inter¬ 
vention of fate. Most men would have looked upon it 
as the interference of the devil. 

Robert. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Alison. {As 
he carefully helps Gregory to the swing.) Rest here 
for a moment or two, old man, and I’ll go ahead to 
prepare the hospital ward. 

Gregory. Don’t make so much of it, Winton. The 
car simply struck me aside and as I fell my wrist doubled 
over. It’s nothing but a sprain. 

Robert. Or a break. For fear that it might be the 
latter, we’ll take every precaution. Play nurse, Alison, 
until I get back. {Exit R.) 

Alison {draxving stool to Gregory’s right). Can 
you ever forgive me.? I know you can’t, but I’d like to 
hear you say so just the same. 

Gregory. There’s nothing to forgive, for, after 
all, it was my fault. I heard the car, but my eyes have 
been troubling me lately and I didn’t gauge the distance 
in a proper fashion. 

Alison. How can you say such comforting things 
when your wrist is half killing you.? {As he protests.) 
Oh, I know it is! I wish I could ease the pain and I did 
take a first aid course—but with my feeble intelligence 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


27 


I’m more likely to give you the remedy for drowning 
than the proper treatment for a sprain. 

Gregory {hastily). Oh, don’t try, please. (As Ali¬ 
son persists in tying handkerchief around wrist.) And 
I wish you wouldn’t bother. 

Alison. Bother! Why, when I saw you prostrate 
and realized that I had done the deed, my mind went 
through a kaleidoscopic contortion in which I saw my¬ 
self arraigned in the court-room, confined in the jail 
and patiently waiting my sentence. I had just taken 
my place in the electric chair when you opened your 
eyes. 

Gregory. Then I’m glad I opened my eyes. Elec¬ 
tric shocks are bad for a person. 

Alison. Well, I need a shock of some kind to bring 
me down to .common sense. 

Gregory. But it wasn’t your fault. 

Alison. It was St. Christopher’s fault. 

Gregory. St. Christopher’s ? 

Alison. The patron saint of motorists. I’ve just 
fastened his insignia to my car—and this is the way he 
has served me. Which goes to prove that one should 
not place her trust in any man—even a saint. 

Gregory. Hasn’t someone said substantially the 
same thing about a woman.? 

Alison. And this from you—after all your other 
pretty speeches. 

Gregory. But I really don’t believe it. Miss Page. 

Alison (in surprise). How do you know my name.? 

Gregory. Even if I am a comparative stranger in 
this neighborhood, I’ve had the opportunity of hearing 
about Miss Page. 

Alison. I suppose you mean the police courts. I 
have been figuring there quite conspicuously of late. 



28 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Gregory. My association with the name is some- 
tlhng pleasanter. I’ve often seen it after charming 
essays and poems in the best periodicals. 

Alison. Oh, I’m sorry— 

Gregory. Sorry.? Why.? 

Alison. Because you’ll think I’m too literary for 
you to like. 

Gregory. Nonsense. 

Alison. Oh, no it isn’t. I spend most of my time 
trying to convince people that half my brain is pure 
bluff. 

Gregory. That’s pretty hard to believe. 

Alison. Don’t say that—for I want you to believe it. 

Gregory. But— why.? 

Alison. Men don’t like literary women. 

Gregory. Then I’m an exception to the rule. 

Alison. You’re just saying that to be nice. 

Gregory. No, I’m not. I’m trying to tell you that 
literary lights are placed upon pedestals. 

Alison. But have you ever stopped to think that 
pedestals are awfully lonely.? 

Gregory. They are a bit removed from the madding 
crowd. 

Alison. And I happen to be mad about the madding 
crowd. 

Gregory. Then how am I to regard you.? 

Alison. As you would regard any girl whom you 
met—conventionally. 

Gregory. But you’re not like the everyday girl— 

Alison. And you haven’t met me—conventionally. 
N evertheless—promise. 

Gregory. I promise. {Extends left hand which she 
takes.) And here’s my hand on it! 

Enter Robert from R. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


29 


Robert. Hospital all ready. (As he advances.) 
Since when is it customary for the nurse to hold the 
patient’s hand.^^ 

Alison. Since the beginning of time. It acts like 
a tonic. (Rises.) 

Gregory (as Rorert attempts to help him from the 
swing). Don’t make such an invalid of me, Winton. 
I’m perfectly able to navigate—and as soon as my wrist 
is looked after I’ll be as right as a trivet. 

Kate enters from R., goes hack of stage to table, 
where she arranges tray. 

Robert. Of course you will—but you’d better let 
me help you just the same. One can’t be struck by a 
battering ram without being a little shaky. (As they 
move off to R.) Here, Alison, support the wounded 
member-^—and do try to keep off the victim’s feet. 

Alison (turning head). Oh, Kate—-will you bring 
my bag ? I left it in the car. 

Kate. Yes, Miss Alison. (Exeunt Alison, Greg¬ 
ory and Robert.) 

Enter Dennis from L. with two hags belonging to 
Alison and Gregory. 

Kate (sarcastically). Well, if it ain’t the Lord High 
Commander of the Navy! How’d Washington let you 
off.? 

Dennis (trying to pass her). Let me by, Kate. I 
ain’t here to quarrel. 

Kate (with a glance at the hags). Leaving us, I 
reckon. 

Dennis (putting down hags). I wish I w^as—I sure 
wish I was—and off to some place where a girl knows 
how to treat a fellow what’s risked his life for his 
country. 




30 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Kate. I ain’t seeing that your risk has been worth 
talking about. 

Dennis. ’Course you ain’t. What you wanted was 
for me to stop a shell and get spread out all over 
the Atlantic ocean. 

Kate. Who’s bag is that.? 

Dennis. Miss Page’s. 

Kate. I’ll take it. 

Dennis {pointing to Gregory’s hag). Well, you 
won’t take this one. It belongs to the guy what’s just 
been run over. 

Kate. He’s here for the week-end. 

Dennis {coming closer). Say, is that right? 

Kate. Of course it is. 

Dennis. Look here, Kate, have you been hearing 
anything about what’s taking place around here? 

Kate. What do you mean? 

Dennis.’ This here robbing of country places. 

K ate. Of course I’ve been hearing it. 

Dennis. Any idea of who’s doing it? 

Kate {turning aside). I should say not. {Walks to 

R.) 

Dennis. Well, / have. {Walks to L.) But I reckon 
you ain’t interested. 

Kate {returning to C.). I’m interested all right— 
but I ain’t putting too much confidence in your word. 
You always did guess wrong, Dennis. 

Dennis {coming to her). I ain’t guessing—not this 
time. {Points to hag.) It’s him—the man what owns 
this bag. 

Kate. Oh, come now, Dennis, you’re way off. What 
would he be doing here—in this house? 

Dennis. Doing just what he’s been doing ever since 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


31 


he got here three weeks ago—learning the lay of the 
land. 

Kate. What made you pick him out.? 

Dennis. Didn’t the robberies start just three weeks 
ago.? And ain’t it natural to be leery of a fellow what 
nobody knows about, what’s living to himself—what’s 
keeping to himself— 

Kate. He ain’t keeping to himself now. 

Dennis. But he’s coming here for a purpose—you 
just wait and see. 

Kate. If he’s that sort, I won't wait and see. I’ll 
keep my eyes open. 

Dennis. And so will I. Maybe the two of us can 
catch him in the act. 

Kate. Ain’t it awful tame for you to be catching 
thieves after chasing submarines and breaking the hearts 
of all the parley-voos.? 

Dennis. You’ve got the darndest tongue, Kate. 
{Walks to L. and folds his arms.) It ain’t my fault if 
the women are crazy over me. 

Kate. You ain’t classing me with them, are you.? 

Dennis {coming close to her). See here, Kate. I’ve 
stood a good deal from you and I’ve been pretty decent 
about it. That there sweater you sent me was so short 
that it wouldn’t do for nothing but a chest protector, 
and the socks made my feet look like corduroy—and 
the fruit cake laid me flat on my back—but I ain’t said 
a word and I’ve took the presents in the spirit which I 
ought to. {Crosses again to L. and turns.) You ain’t 
got nothing on me. 

Enter Alison and Ruth from R. 

Kate {furiously stamping her foot). Oh—ain’t I.? 

Ruth. Kate! (Kate turns.) Take Miss Alison’s 
bag ta her room. 



32 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Kate. Yes, Miss Ruth. {Exit R. with hag.) 

Ruth. And drive her car to the garage, Dennis. 

Dennis. Yes, Miss Ruth. {Exit L.) 

Alison {as she and Ruth seat themselves in swing). 
For a moment, Ruth, I thought I’d killed him—I really 
did. Manslaughter is the one excitement I need as a 
climax to my checkered career. 

Ruth. That very thing will happen, Alison, unless 
there is a decided change in your method of driving. 
Oh, you needn’t laugh—it’s no laughing matter. 

Alison. Do you think I brought you out here in 
order to hear one of your perfectly nice little sermons, 
Ruth.? 

Ruth. Never for a moment. Nor am I stupid 
enough to imagine that you wanted to talk about motor¬ 
ing. You’re camouflaging as usual. 

Alison {mockingly). “Oh, wise 3 mung judge.” 

Ruth. Now —what’s the trouble.? 

Alison. Trouble! Did you say trouble? ^ly dear, 
there’s no such thing in all the universe. I’m looking 
through rose-colored spectacles at the very nicest old 
world that ever happened. 

Ruth. Then take them off and come back to a nor¬ 
mal vision, and to common sense. {Pauses.) What is 
the matter with you.? 

Alison {drawing letter from pocket). Look! 

Ruth. Lawrence.? 

Alison. Of course. Would anything else intoxicate 
me to the point of imbecility.? 

Ruth. He’s—well.? 

Alison. More than that. He’s in New York. 

Ruth. Alison! Then you’re expecting him. 

Alison. Not until Christmas. 

Ruth. Why not now? 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


33 


Alison. Because he’s on his way to a western ranch 
to recuperate, to rest and forget the dreadful things 
lie’s seen. 

Ruth. Do you realize that you’ve gone into this 
thing pretty far, Alison 

Alison. I realized that fate offered me the oppor¬ 
tunity of my life and that I took it. 

Ruth. I don’t believe in fate quite so strongly. 

Alison. But I do. No ordinary chance could have 
sent me the name of Lawrence Thomas, aviator, even 
for the customary war correspondence. 

Ruth. I don’t know that I approve of these -war 
correspondences. 

Alison. It does depend upon the man at the other 
end, I grant. 

Ruth. And such a proceeding is pretty apt to re¬ 
sult in complications. Go slowly, Alison. 

Alison. I have gone slowly. It’s been over a year 
since my first letter. 

Ruth. He does write good letters. 

Alison. Good letters—they are heavenly! 

Ruth. What about yours to him.? 

Alison. They are heavenly, too. I can write good 
letters, if I do say it, as shouldn’t. 

Ruth. What does he say in this last letter.? 

Alison {opening letter.) He says—he says— {hesi¬ 
tates) honest to goodness, Ruth, there isn’t a line I can 
read you. It all belongs exclusively to me. 

Ruth. Alison, please don’t do anything foolish. 
When a girl has your brains— 

Alison {rising and seating herself R. % E.). I 
haven’t any brains now, Ruth—just a heart. 

Ruth. But people expect so much of you. 



34 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Alison. Is that any reason why I shouldn’t expect 
—just what any girl has a right to expect? 

Ruth. But—Alison— 

Alison. It’s no use to argue, Ruth. I’m crazily, 
overwhelmingly and irrevocably in love with Lawrence 
Thomas—and I’ll never love any other man. 

Ruth. Are you—sure? 

Alison. I was sure on the day when I heard of the 
splendid act of bravery which made him an ace—and 
which almost meant an end of his career. 

Ruth. You’re in love with his letters. 

Alison. No, I’m not. I know the man behind them. 

Ruth. A man you’ve never seen! He may be very 
different from what you imagine. 

Alison. I’ll take the risk. 

Ruth. Somebody may have written the letters for 
him. 

Alison. Guess again. 

Ruth. He may have a sweetheart. 

Alison. He has. Who knows better than I? 

Ruth. Or a wife. 

Alison. That will come in time. 

Ruth. Alison, I give you up. You’re playing a 
dangerous game. 

Alison {laughing). And it looks as if the ace had 
taken the trick! 

Enter Dorns from L. 

Doris. Hello, you people! (Ruth and Alison rise.) 

Ruth {as she takes Doris’ hand). Doris! How do 
you happen to be coming in at this gate—and where’s 
Ted? (Doris Alison.) 

Doris. I’m coming in at this gate because the car 
broke down—way off there— {points) and Ted is 
squirming under the old thing trying to regulate its 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


35 


internals. Lemonade! {Crosses and seats herself on 
settee.) Please give me some, for I’m so hot and dusty 
and tired and cross and— (Alison crosses to table). 
Maybe you think it’s easy to pack two suit cases—and 
get an apartment all straightened out—and put out a 
notice for the milk man—and take down the ice card— 
and hide all the silver—and try to remember every 
single thing that Ted will need—and—why, when I 
used to go to house parties, the maid packed my clothes 
and all I had to do was to step into the car—and I 
didn’t think even about myself—and— 

Alison {handing her the lemonade). Calm down, 
Doris, and get your breath. {Goes hack to seat R. 2 E.) 

Doris. Get my breath! I haven’t drawn a long one 
since the day Ted got in—I think I lost it on the way 
to the pier—and I don’t mind telling you two that I 
was downright scared for fear I wouldn’t recognize him. 
Oh, of course I had studied his picture and had tried 
to memorize it, but for the life of me I couldn’t remem¬ 
ber whether his eyes were brown or blue—no, I couldn’t 
—and I have an idea he felt a little hazy about me— 
because he asked me to wear a red carnation. {Drinks 
lemonade and places glass on table.) 

Ruth. You silly youngster ! How could you expect 
anything else when you married him four days after you 
met him.P 

Doris. Now don’t begin any I-told-you-so lecture, 
Ruth. Of course you wouldn’t understand the situation 
because you’re so sensible—but there are mighty few 
girls who wouldn’t have done just what I did. Why, 
my dear, Ted had given me the most heavenly time for 
those four days, and on that particular night—well— 
it was moonlight—and the air was full of lovely rose 
smells—and the dancing was perfect—and the music 



36 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


was divine—and when Ted said we’d be married right 
away I couldn’t have refused if I had wanted to! I’ve 
always found it very hard to say no to a man who pro¬ 
posed on a moonlight night. 

Ruth. Oh, Doris—Doris— 

Doris. Then it was just the time when everybody 
was wearing a service pin and flying a service flag and 
getting letters with little red triangles on them—and 
I didn’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy it, too. And most 
of all it was the uniform— {ecstatically) the uniform! 

Alison. A service flag—a red triangle—and a uni¬ 
form—splendid foundation for the structure of matri¬ 
mony ! 

Doris. I don’t see what you mean by that^ Alison. 
Ted and I are perfectly happy—or will be when we get 
acquainted. 

Ruth. How is the cooking coming on.^ 

Doris. It isn’t coming — it’s going mostly to the 
garbage can. You know, this is the first cooking I’ve ever 
done—and I do think that Ted is a little unreasonable. 
Now I had a good lunch for him today—a nice, thick 
steak—(it was a bit tough but that wasn’t my fault) — 
potatoes—(they weren’t very hard)—peas—(you could 
hardly tell they were burnt)—and biscuits (of course 
I forgot to put the baking powder in them but they 
weren’t so bad)—and what do you think he said.^^ 

Alison. Something about mother’s cooking, I sup¬ 
pose. 

Doris. No, indeed. I could have stood that; but 
what would you have done if your husband had sighed 
and said in a sort of plaintive way, ‘‘Oh, for a taste of 
trench cooking!” 

Alison. I should have told him to put on civilian 
clothes and to come back to home eatables. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


37 


Doris. But I don’t want him to put on civilian 
clothes. 

Ruth. Why.? 

Doris. Because he has always worn the uniform, and 
plain, everyday clothes might not be so becoming. 

Ruth. But you can’t expect him to keep it on for¬ 
ever. 

Doris, 'time will adjust that difficulty. 

Alison. It strikes me that Father Time has his 
hands pretty full when it comes to you and Ted. 

Doris. I don’t understand you, Alison, and if you’re 
insinuating that Ted and I have made a mistake, you’re 
all wrong. Just as soon as we get acquainted every¬ 
thing will be perfectly lovely. 

Enter Ted from L. loaded with hags. 

Ted {putting down the bags). Is this the reception 
committee.? And what do you do to a guest who sneaks 
in at the back way.? 

Ruth (as she shakes hands with him). Make him 
just as welcome as if he had arrived in a prim and 
proper fashion. 

Alison. What was the matter with the car.? 

Ted (as he greets her). Not a thing. Ran out of 
gas, that’s all. (Turns and comes to Doris.) I told 
you to remind me of that, Doris. (Sits by her.) 

Doris. And I had plenty to do without thinking of 
any old gasoline tank. Speaking of gasoline, I hope 
you haven’t a spot on that uniform, Ted. 

Ted. Oh, well, what if I have.? Its days of useful¬ 
ness are almost over. 

Doris. Ted! Don’t say that. I just can’t bear for 
you to take it off. 



38 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Ted. It’s all right for you to respect the uniform, 
Doris, but there’s no use in carrying it to an extreme. 

Doris. But you wore it when I first met you, dear. 

Ted. All the more reason that I should let you see 
me in something else. 

Doris. But you might look different. 

Ted. Of course I’ll look different. But why should 
you care.f^ I’m the same. 

Doris. But I love you in that uniform, Ted. 

Ted. Can’t you love me in civilian clothes.? What’s 
the matter with you, Doris? 

Doris. I’m worrying about the uniform. 

Ted. I’m the one who has to wear it. 

Doris. But I’m the one who has to look at you. 

Ruth {hastily). It’s good to be back, isn’t it, Ted? 

Ted. Well—rather. {As he puts arm about Doris.) 
And it’s downright fun getting acquainted with my wife. 

Alison. So I should imagine. A regular Columbus- 
discovering-America experience. 

Doris. Well, he’s not the only one who’s been mak¬ 
ing discoveries. {As she pulls pipe from his pocket.) 
Ted, you never told me that you smoked a horrid, old, 
smelly pipe! 

Ted. You never told me about that messy boudoir 
cap, either. 

Doris. And as to your liking onions— ugh! 

Ted {withdrawing his arm). Liking onions is no 
worse than not being able to cook them. 

Doris. Suppose you help me with the cooking for a 
wliile. 

Ted. Doris, you have married a soldier—not a 
kitchen convenience! 

Ruth. Such youngsters as you are! From your 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


39 


talk an outsider might say that each had made a bad 
match of it. 

Doris. Nonsense. War matches are made in heaven. 

Alison. Not a bit of it. Too many of them smell 
of brimstone. 

Ted. When do you expect Dick.? 

Ruth. Almost any time. In fact, we’ve been look¬ 
ing for a telegram this very afternoon. 

Ted {rising). Great Scott! How could I forget it! 
{Pulls telegram from pocket.) Met the boy as I came 
along and told him I’d deliver the message and save him 
the trouble. Maybe it’s the very one you’re looking for. 

Ruth {rising). Oh, I hope so! I’ll take it to Bob— 
and the rest of you can follow at your leisure. 

As Robert appears from R. 

Doris. Here comes Bob now. {Rises.) Gather up 
our bags, Ted, for we want to freshen up before dinner. 

Robert {crossing to Doris.) Greetings, Doris! 
How’s the bride.? And hello, Ted! {Shakes his hand.) 
Being the returned hero isn’t half bad, is it.? Well, we’re 
glad to know that you’re back, safe and sound and 
without a scratch! 

Ted {grinning). Aren’t you forgetting the cooties.? 

Ruth {handing Robert the telegram). A telegram, 
Bob—see if it’s from Dick, please. 

Robert. Why, when did this come.? 

Ted. About fifteen minutes ago. I took it from the 
messenger boy—then got sidetracked by the ladies—and 
forgot to deliver it until just now. 

Robert {as he opens it). You’ll excuse me.? 

Doris. Excuse you—when we’re just dying to know 
what’s in it! 

Robert {as he reads it). Great heavens! 

Ruth. Oh, it’s no bad news, is it. Bob.? 



40 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Robert. I don’t understand—here—read it, Ruth. 

Ruth (reads). “Aimee and I will be with you to¬ 
night. You will all love her.” It’s signed—Dick. Who 
is Aimee, Bob.^ 

Robert. I’m wondering myself. 

Doris. Do you suppose he has—married.^ 

Ruth. Married! Impossible. Why—there’s Cecily 
—and Dick wouldn’t do so dishonorable a thing. 

Ted. Those French girls are pretty attractive. 

Doris. Ted! 

Ted (hastily as he puts his arm about her). And 
unless one is already married it is hard to escape. 

Robert. Well, whoever it is, some one must drive 
to the station right away. Shall we all go in the house ? 
Anne is waiting for us. 

Doris. Let’s hurry. (Robert takes one hag, Ted 
another and the three go off stage at R.) 

Aeison (rising). Dick didn’t mention any certain 
train, did he.? 

Ruth. No —but— 

Aeison (as they move to R.). It looks to me as if 
Cecily had met her Waterloo. 

Ruth (indignantly). Alison! 

Aeison. Well, isn’t it Dick who always does the un¬ 
expected.? (Exeunt Aeison and Ruth off R.) 

The stage is clear and grows gradually darker. Dick 
enters at L. with Aimee. For a moment he gazes slowly 
around him and then advances to C. 

Dick. We’re home, Aimee— home. Do you know 
what that means.? (To himself.) I wonder if it’s all a 
dream—if I’ll wake up—over there—with the horrors 
around m'e and the sound of the everlasting guns in my 
ears. (To Aimee.) Poor, tired little kiddie 1 (Lifts her 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


41 


on swing.) Shall we rest just a little before we go in to 
ill the strange new faces? 

Ruth enters from R. unseen by Dick. 

Dick. You’ll have friends now, dear,—real friends— 
and they’ll make you the happiest little girl in the 
world. 

Aimee. But I want you. Uncle Dicky. 

Dick. Oh, you’ll have me forever and ever. Why, 
you’ve adopted me, haven’t you? {She nods.) And 
we’re going to live here always and always—and you’ll 
play where Uncle Dicky played when he was a little boy 
just like you. 

Aimee. But I’m a little girl. 

Dick {laughing). Why of course you are. Uncle 
Dicky’s saying all sorts of funny things, isn’t he? 
That’s because he’s so excited over getting home. 
{Takes off her bonnet.) There! Feel better? You’ve 
been the bulliest little pal a fellow ever had—a regular 
soldier—for you haven’t cried a single time—and there’s 
never been a whimper when Uncle Dicky pulled your 
hair the wrong way and got the buttons twisted. And 
we’ve come a long way together—you and I. 

Ruth {steps forward). Dick! 

Dick {rising). Ruth! Is it really Or just one 

of the dear familiar memories which have been with me 
for so long? {Kisses her.) This makes you real. You 
don’t mind, do you? For you’re part of the home I’m 
coming back to! 

Ruth. Oh, Dick, it’s so wonderful to have you here 
—to know that you’re safe—and oh, we’re very, very 
proud of you! {As Aimee rises, goes to Dick and slips 
her hand in his.) Who is this? 

Dick. A little bit of France come back with me to 
stay. 




42 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Ruth. You mean— 

Dick. That I shall keep her— 

Ruth. Always.'^ 

Dick. Always. I couldn’t do without her—now. 

Ruth. It’s a great responsibility, Dick. 

Dick. And a greater privilege. Why, Ruth, she 
loves me—and any man is better and stronger for a 
child’s faith. 

Ruth {drawing Aimee to her). Shall we be friends, 
Aimee 

Dick. The best friends in the world, I’m hoping. 
Ruth, you’ll love her—you can’t help it—and— {to 
Aimee) listen, dear—she’s the kind of friend who will 
always know where the hurt is—and who will always 
understand when other grown-ups don’t. Won’t you 
give her your hand, Aimee.? {The child looks at Ruth 
seriously for a moment—then smiles and puts out her 
hand. Ruth seats herself in the swing and lifts Aimee 
by her.) 

Ruth. Her parents.? 

Dick {sitting by Aimee). The mother went first. 
Loss of home and friends—and unaccustomed privations 
proved too much for her. The father—the finest type 
of a Frenchman—was near my company—and when he 
fell at Chateau Thierry I promised to take the child. 

Ruth. Does she understand what we say.? 

Dick. Her mother was an American—so she has 
always spoken English. Poor little girl! Life hasn’t 
been very kind to her—and she has seen so much that 
is terrible. and grewsome that she is old beyond her 
years. 

Ruth. Then we’ll bring back the child vision, Dick. 
{Kisses her.) But to think of my keeping you here 
when the others— {rises). 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


43 


Dick {rising eagerly). Bob—Anne—and the boy! 
Are they all—in—there? {Goes hack of swing.) 

Ruth {laughing). They’ve all gone to meet you, 
you foolish boy! {Goes hack of swing.) Why did you 
send us that unsatisfactory telegram which never men¬ 
tioned a train? 

Dick. Did I do that? Well, I’m hardly responsible 
today—and when I found a man at the station who 
could give us a lift, I came as far as the cross roads and 
walked the rest of the way. 

Ruth. ^Var hasn’t made you less of a boy, Dick. 

Dick. But it has changed me into more of a man. 
One can’t live in a topsy turvy universe without gain¬ 
ing a truer, wider viewpoint; one cannot look upon suf¬ 
fering and death without determining to be a part of 
that juster, better and happier world which will come 
from all this strife and agony. {Pauses as he looks 
around.) And after crashing guns and ringing steel, 
there are such things as roses—moonlight—romance— 
poetry—home— 

Ruth. And love, Dick. {Points off R.) It’s wait¬ 
ing for you—there. 

Dick. You can’t mean that Cecily— 

Ruth. Oh, but I do—it’s a real home-coming. 

Dick. Cecily! I can’t realize that I’ve come back to 
her. Why, Ruth, you don’t know what the very thought 
of her has been to me—through everything. What her 
love, her sympathy, her— {seizes Ruth’s hands) tell 
me, is she as wonderful as ever? 

Ruth. Just as wonderful. 

Dick. And is she still in love with me? 

Ruth. You know she is. 

Dick. And do you think that she’ll be—oh, just a 
little proud of me? 



44 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Ruth. Of course she will. 

Dick. You’re the best friend a man ever had— 
you’ve always been—you’ve always had the knack of 
understanding me when others couldn’t—and I don’t 
know what I’d do without you, Ruth. {Drops her 
hands .) 

Ruth {pointing off R.). Look! 

Dick {half to himself). The only girl in the world! 
{Calls.) Cecily! {Leaves the stage with outstretched 
hands.) 

Aimee {starting to follow him). I want to go, too. 

Ruth. Not yet, dear. Won’t you stay with me.?^ 
{Seats herself in swing with Aimee on her lap.) 

Aimee. But I want Uncle Dicky! 

Ruth. Oh, baby—baby—I want him, too. {Hides 
her face on Aimee’s shoulder.) 


CUKTAIN, 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


The Second Act. 

Scene: Richard Winton’s den—transformed hy 
festoons of holly and mistletoe into a Christmas ren¬ 
dezvous. An arch C. in F. reveals hall beyond. En¬ 
trances down R. and L. Large glittering tree at L. U. 
E. Large desk L: S E. with several drawers, in one of 
which is a bottle of peroxide, antiseptic gauze and a 
needle book. Electrolier and telephone for desk. Desk 
chair and larger chair down L. Table at R. U. E. 
Mantel with candlesticks and box of cigarettes. Daven¬ 
port placed diagonally. Settee at C. Hassock down 
C. Pictures, rugs, draperies for three entrances. Push 
button R. of C. in F. Secret panel in mantel revealing 
small aperture. Furniture should be colonial if possible. 

Curtain rises on Aimee at tree and Bobby at mantel, 
listening intently. 

Aimee {running to Bobby). Do you hear the rein¬ 
deer 

Bobby. I don’t hear anything. Anyway, it’s too 
early for Santa Claus. 

Aimee. It’s late. The stars are out. 

Bobby. Well, it isn’t late enough for him. He won’t 
come until the grown-ups go to bed. 

Aimee. He’ll bring me a dolly. 

Bobby. How do you know? 

Aimee. Uncle Dicky says so. 

Bobby. Uncle Dicky doesn’t know everything. 

Aimee. Oh, yes he does. 

Bobby. Anyway, he’s just an uncle and an uncle 
isn’t as good as a daddy. {As Aimee shrugs her shoul- 
45 



46 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


ders and smiles.) Don’t you try any of your French 
ways on me, Aimee. 

As Dick and Cecily enter from C. in F. 

Bobby. Hello, Uncle Dick! We’re looking for Santa 
Claus. 

Aimee {running to Dick at C.). And—oh, please 
let me hang up my stockings right now. Uncle Dicky. 

Dick {tossing her up). Of course you can hang up 
your stockings! We’ll help—won’t we, Cecily.? It will 
be a regular lark. 

Cecily {who has crossed to davenport). Well, it 
isn’t my idea of a lark—and if you intend to take part 
in these nursery stunts. I’ll go right back to the other 
room. They’re going to dance, anyway. 

Dick. Then we won’t think of it, Cecily. (Aimee 
crosses to Cecily and touches her gown.) 

Cecily. Don’t touch my gown, Aimee. Dear me, 
Dick—she’s always around—I never see you by your¬ 
self. 

Aimee {going to Dick). Uncle Dicky— 

Cecily. Aimee, he isn’t your uncle. Call him Mr. 
Dick. 

Aimee. But he IsnA Mr. Dick. 

Dick. Run over and play by the tree, dear—just 
for a little while—and then we’ll hang the stockings. 
(Aimee obeys.) {To Bobby.) Go with her, old scout! 
(Bobby joins Aimee at tree, where they play quietly.) 

Cecily {sitting on davenport). Sometimes I think 
you love that child better than you love me. 

Dick {going around back of the davenport). You 
know better than that—now don’t you? {Sitting by 
her.) Now don’t you? 

Cecily. Don’t look at me—like that. 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


47 


Dick. What other fellow has the right to look at 
you—like that.^^ 

Cecily (softly). I don’t want any other fellow to 
have the right. 

Dick (with his arm about her), Cecily! 

Cecily. Be careful of my dress, Dick. It’s a part 
of my trousseau. 

Dick. That trousseau has made me wait three 
months and I won’t stand it another moment. (Draws 
her close.) Cecily—suppose you tell me—wTen ! 

Cecily. When— what? 

Dick. You know what I mean. 

Cecily. Then—any time you say. 

Dick. Do you mean it ? If you do, we’ll turn Christ¬ 
mas bells into wedding chimes—holly berries into orange 
blossoms—and force our loving relatives to offer con¬ 
gratulations instead of greetings. 

Cecily. TomorrowOh, I can’t! 

Dick. There’s no such word. (Rises.) 

Cecily (rising). Then—I won’t. What would peo¬ 
ple say.? 

Dick. Do we care what people say.? 

Cecily. Lots. I ’do. Anyway, I want a church 
wedding. 

Dick (pleadingly), Cecily! 

Cecily. Why not.? I might as well get some pres¬ 
ents in return for all I’ve given. 

Dick (happily). But we w^on’t need any presents— 
we can buy them for ourselves. (Crosses to C.) Why, 
I have the purse of Fortunatus, the lamp of Aladdin— 
the touch of Midas! 

Cecily (sitting on davenport). Don’t be so silly, 
Dick. You act like a boy. 

Dick. I am a boy—a wild and hilariously happy 



48_ THE REAL THING AFTER ALL _ 

boy. {Leaning over back of davenport). Cecily—I 
won it! 

Cecily. Won— what? 

Dick. The prize. 

Cecily. What prize? 

Dick. The Civic Prize—for the Auditorium de¬ 
signs. How could you forget? Why, I’ve slaved and 
worked and dreamed over it for weeks. 

Cecily. And you won? 

Dick. I won—twenty-five thousand dollars. 

Cecily. Twenty-five thousand dollars! Think of 
what it will buy I 

Dick. And think—how it symbolizes my success— 
how it marks a beginning, a promise of things to be. 

Cecily. Don’t feel so encouraged that you won’t 
make any further effort. Twenty-five thousand dollars 
won’t last forever. 

Dick. I’m not thinking of the dollars—only of that 
intangible, imaginative part of me which has gone into 
the work. Why, Cecily, it embodies my dreams, my 
ambitions, the beauty-loving soul of me that must find 
expression. There’s a fascination in architecture—a— 

Cecily {pettishly). Don’t let’s talk about archi¬ 
tecture. I don’t understand it and I’m not interested. 

Dick. Not interested? You surely don’t mean that, 
Cecily? Architecture is my chosen profession; it means 
my future and yours. 

Cecily. And I don’t see why you chose it as a pro¬ 
fession. There’s too much risk attached to it. Why 
didn’t you go into stocks and bonds and make money 
in a quicker way? 

Dick {crossing hack of davenport). I can’t quite 
see myself in stocks and bonds. {Sits by her.) I’m 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


49 


sorry you’re not interested—and I can see that you 
do not understand. 

Cecily. What is there to understand.^ 

Dick. Merely my natural craving for sympathy— 
comradeship—appreciation. Don’t bother about it. 

Cecily. But I do appreciate your winning the prize, 
Dick. You’re the one who does not understand. {Pauses 
and leans toward him.) Now we can buy a new house, 
can’t we.? 

Dick {after a moment). Will you say that again.? 

Cecily. A new house! Surely you can’t expect me 
to live in this old-fashioned place. 

Dick. I’ve never thought of it as old-fashioned. 
The happiest years of my life have been spent here— 
and, someway, Cecily, I’ve dreamed of its being to you 
what it is to me. 

Cecily {rising). I hate it. 

Dick {rising). Don’t say that. 

Cecily {walking to C.). For I’ve had my dreams, 
too; and they’ve centered around a city house where we 
could give smart little parties, dine out in the evening 
—and always have something going on. 

Dick {standing hack of her). I’m not that sort of a 
fellow, Cecily. I love my home. 

Cecily. You’re selfish, Dick; you’re not thinking of 
me. Here I’ve just promised to marry you right away 
—and you refuse the very first thing I ask you. 

Dick {with his arm around her). You shall have 
your city home, Cecily—so there. You know that my 
very first thought is to make you happy. {Children ad¬ 
vance to C.) 

Bobby. Doesn’t Santa Claus come after the grown¬ 
ups go to bed. Uncle Dick.? (Aimee stands by Dick and 
slips her hand into his.) 



50 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Dick. Of course he does. He lets the grown-ups 
trim the tree, but he does the rest. 

Cecii^y {to Aimee). Can’t you keep your hands off 
Dick, Aimee.^ {Crossing to davenport.) Anyway, he 
doesn’t love you half so much as he loves me. {Sits.) 

Dick. Cecily! How can you say it? 

Cecily. Well, you don’t—you know you don’t. (Ai¬ 
mee walks to L. and turns her head aside.) 

Dick. Aimee? {She does not answer.) Aimee? 
{Still she does not answer. He goes to her.) You love 
Aunt Anne, don’t you dear? And Bobby? And Aunt 
Ruth? But you love Uncle Dicky in a different sort 
of way, don’t you? Of course you do—and that’s the 
way Uncle Dicky loves you. Now do you see—and is it 
all right? (Aimee smiles and puts her arms around his 
neck.) 

Cecily. Well, / want to dance. {Rises). 

Dick. And I’ll go with you, Cecily. {They cross to 
C. in F.) 

Enter Miss Ward from R., followed by Dennis with 
punch howl. 

Miss Ward {pointing to table). Place it there, Den¬ 
nis. {He obeys.) The young people are dancing—and 
will soon be ready. {As she sees Dick and Cecily.) 
Wliy, Dick, why aren’t you in the other room with your 
house party? 

Dick. We’re going this minute. Aunt Ellen. By 
the way, there’ll be another guest tomorrow—a man 
I met overseas. Can you put him up all right ? 

Miss Ward. Of course I can. 

Dick. I just heard this afternoon or I should have 
told you sooner. 

Miss Ward. There’s a room all ready for a last mo- 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


51 


ment arrival. Taking care of you all these years, Dick, 
has prepared me for emergencies. 

Dick. That’s bully of you. And I’ve been an awful 
nuisance. Aunt Ellen. 

Miss Ward {patting his shoulder). You’ve more 
than made up for it in other ways, Dick. Now run 
along and play host. 

CECiiiY {impatiently at C. in F.). I’m waiting. 

Dick. Coming, Cecily. {Exeunt Dick and Cecily.) 

Miss Ward {at C.). There are two plates of ice 
cream on the dining-room table—and some pretty little 
cakes. I wonder who wants them. 

Bobby and Aimee {clapping hands) . We do! We do ! 

Bobby. Are they for us. Aunt Ellen 

Miss Ward. Suppose you find out before anybody 
else has a chance. 

Bobby. Come on, Aimee. {Exeunt Bobby and Ai¬ 
mee at R.) 

Miss Ward. I won’t need you any longer, Dennis, 
but I do want you to open the box which you’ll find in 
the back hall. It’s full of holly and mistletoe and I’ll 
need some for the mantel. 

Dennis. Yes, Miss Ellen. 

Miss Ward. Mistletoe at Christmas time comes in 
handy—even for you, Dennis. 

Dennis {grinning). I ain’t forced to depend on 
mistletoe altogether. Miss Ellen. 

Miss Ward. It may help out, just the same. {As 
Dennis lingers.) Well, what is it? 

Dennis {coming to C.). Have you heard the news? 

Miss Ward {seating herself at desk). Dear me! 
What news? So much comes under that head these days. 

Dennis {whispering). The robbery! 

Miss Ward. Oh, Dennis—Dennis! The robberies 



52 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


were three months back. In this galloping age that is 
ancient history. 

Dennis. But it wasn’t three months ago. It w'as 
last night. 

Miss Ward {sharply). What’s that.? 

Dennis. Last night—and not far from here. 

Miss Ward. Has the thief been caught.? 

Dennis. Not a sign of him. He’s clever enough to 
make a get-away, every time. {Pauses.) Say, Miss 
Ellen.? 

Miss Ward. Well.? 

Dennis. Does it strike you queer that there was a 
let-up of three months—and now it’s started up again.? 

Miss Ward. I don’t see anything so queer about it. 
It may not be the same person. 

Dennis. It’s the same person all right. And it’s 
somebody who knows all about this neighborhood. 

Miss Ward. Whose home was robbed.? 

Dennis. The Hamilton’s. 

Miss Ward. Why, Mr. Gregory was there last night 
for dinner. 

Dennis* Of course he was. And he came here this 
afternoon, didn’t he.? 

Miss Ward. Certainly. What has that to do with it.? 

Dennis. A lot, I’m thinking. The jewels weren’t 
missed until this morning. 

Miss Ward. You’re not daring to insinuate— 

Dennis. Now what do you know about him. Miss 
Ellen.? 

Miss Ward. Dennis, we’ve brought you up and we 
look upon you as one of the family; but I really don’t 
believe that gives you the right to cast suspicion on a 
guest. 

Dennis. I don’t mean it that way. Miss Ellen,— 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


53 


you know I don’t. I just don’t want anything to hap¬ 
pen—here. 

Miss Ward. Of course you don’t; but I think it is 
hardly necessary to play Sherlock Holmes. {Pauses.) 
You’ll find the box in the back hall; after you’ve un¬ 
packed it, bring some of the holly and mistletoe here. 

Dennis. Yes, Miss Ellen. {Exit at R.) 

Miss Ward {to herself). I wonder. 

As Doris enters from G. in F. 

Miss Ward. Well, Doris, has the matrimonial noose 
tightened? You look it. 

Doris. Now, Miss Ward, don’t you begin to lecture 
me about marrying Ted four days after I met him. 

Miss Ward. Bless your heart, child, I quite approve 
of your course. 

Doris. You’re the very first to say that. 

Miss Ward. Marriage is a lottery at the best; 
watchful waiting doesn’t always help; and the longer I 
live the more I’m inclined toward a matrimonial draft 
law. There wouldn’t be half so many mistakes, I’m 
thinking. {As Doris looks around.) Well, what do you 
want ? 

Doris. A pin. Do you happen to have any? 

Miss Ward {handing her one). I have everything 
from a pin to a Red Cross emergency kit. What’s torn? 

Doris {sighing). My dress. {As she takes the pin.) 
Here, I’ll fix it. Since I’ve had all of Ted’s clothes to 
keep in order, I haven’t had time to look after my own. 
And I’ve never sewed in all my life. 

Miss Ward. Marriage is quite an education, isn’t it? 

Doris. I shouldn’t call it that. Were you ever dis¬ 
appointed in love. Miss Ward? {Sits in chair down L.) 

Miss Ward. Disappointed in love—or in lovers? 
There’s a difference. 



54 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Doris {reflectively). And what one thinks is a really 
true lover may turn out to be only a boarder whom she 
can’t please. 

Miss Ward. Evidently the cooking is bothering you 
again. 

Doris. Again? It’s never stopped. Oh, Miss Ward, 
is it true that eating comes first with a man ? 

Miss Ward. I’m afraid so. It’s a wise virgin wdio 
never forgets the alcohol in her chafing dish. 

Doris {weeping.) Oh, dear—oh, dear—oh, dear! 

Miss Ward. Is it as bad as that.? 

Doris. It’s worse. Miss Ward, I don’t believe that 
Ted loves me any more. 

Miss Ward. Nonsense. 

Doris. But it isn’t nonsense. 

Miss Ward. What makes you think so ? 

Doris. He’s different; and he’s lost so many of the 
pretty little ways he had before I married him. 

Miss Ward. Meaning lover-like demonstration, I 
suppose. Well, dear, he’s probably put them away in 
camphor and moth-balls. He’s your husband, now. 

Doris. But I’m horribly in love with him. 

Miss Ward. Of course—and he probably is with 
you. If you both live through this period of readjust¬ 
ment, you’ll find each other. 

Doris. But what can I do.? 

Miss Ward. Don’t notice him for a while. A touch 
of indifference works wonders. And then—make him 
jealous. 

Doris. How? 

Miss Ward. Flirt with somebody. Surely you still 
have that weapon left you. 

Doris. There’s nobody to flirt with. Everybody’s 
married or engaged. 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


55 


Miss Ward. Since when has that been an obstacle? 
Have you tried Mr. Gregory? 

Doris. He won’t look at anybody but Alison. 

Miss Ward. Have you given him a chance? 

Doris. No — (^suddenly) but I will. {Rising and 
walking to C. in F.) Good gracious, Miss Ward, here 
comes Ted. {Tragically.) Oh, he mustn’t find me here. 
{Rushes wildly about.) 

Miss W^'ard {rising). Why not? You’re in perfectly 
respectable company. You act like the tragic heroine 
of a dime novel, Doris. 

Doris. But I don’t want to see him. 

Miss Ward. Then go out that back door. And re¬ 
member what I told you to do. 

Doris. You —just—watch—me! {Exit at R.) 

Enter Ted dejectedly from C. in F. 

Miss Ward {seating herself). What can I do for you, 
merry sunshine? 

Ted. You don’t happen to have a needle and 
thread handy, do you. Miss Ward? 

Miss Ward {opening drawer and taking out needle 
book). Why of course. I always prepare for emergen¬ 
cies at a dance. What’s the trouble? 

Ted {holding out arm). A button loose. Would you 
mind tightening it? {Sighs.) Doris doesn’t seem to 
have time to look after me. 

Miss Ward {as she sews the button). Nonsense. 
She’s probably overlooked just this particular button. 

Ted {gloomily). It isn’t the first time it’s happened. 
{Sighs.) Miss Ward, do you believe that marriage is a 
failure ? 

Miss Ward. I’m hardly the one to venture an opin¬ 
ion, am I? 



56 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Ted {in embarrassment). Good gracious—I forgot 
—I’m sorry— 

Miss Ward {laughing). Don’t apologize. Married 
and unmarried people waste a great deal of time being 
sorry for each other. {Pauses.) Come—what’s the 
trouble ? 

Ted. Doris. She’s tired of me, I think. 

Miss Ward. Ridiculous! 

Ted. No, it isn’t ridiculous. She’s lost so many of 
the pretty little ways she had before I married her. 

Miss Ward. Of course you’ve kept all your pretty 
little ways. 

Ted. I’ve tried to. {After a moment.) Just what 
do you mean. Miss Ward.^ 

Miss Ward. Well, for example. Are you still the 
dashing and devoted lover.? 

Ted. Well—you see—I— 

Miss Ward. That question’s answered. Next—how 
often do you tell her that you love her.? 

Ted. But we’re married now. 

Miss Ward. Do you praise her cooking.? 

Ted. Heavens! How can I.? Could you be satisfied 
with a cup of broth and a salad of three lettuce leaves 
when your very soul was crying for roast beef and po¬ 
tatoes .? 

Miss Ward. It isn’t fair to ask me questions. Last 
of all, what are you going to do about it.? 

Ted. What can I do.? I’m awfully in love with Doris 
and-—if she turns me down —{paces up and down). 

Miss Ward. Don’t get excited. She isn’t on the 
way to the divorce court yet. {Rises.) Do you really 
want to keep her interested.? 

Ted. I’ve got to keep her interested. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


57 


Miss Ward. Then—flirt with somebody else. Make 
her jealous. 

Ted. Flirt? I’ve forgotten how. 

Miss Ward. Doubtless the gift will return. Try it 
and see. 

Fin appears at C. in F., walking back and forth. 

Ted. By Jove, I will. (As he sees Fifi.) Say, Miss 
Ward, who is that classy little maid out there 

Miss Ward. You needn’t practice on her. She’s 
Aimee’s new French nurse and is distinguished by the 
august name of Fifi. 

Ted. She’s a peach, all right. 

Miss Ward. She’s a fluff of nothingness. (Comes 
to Ted at C.) 

Ted. a new maid, you say.^ 

Miss Ward. She’s just come. Dick took a wild no¬ 
tion that Aimee must not forget her French—and this 
is the result. Proper credentials and all—but I haven’t 
much faith in her type. (Calls.) Fifi! (To Ted.) She 
might as well get to work. 

Enter Fifi from C. in F. 

Fifi (coming down L.). Madame—a-t-elle appele.^ 

Miss Ward. Can’t you speak English.? 

Fifi. Je ne comprends pas I’anglais—vairy much. 
Mais Madame—parle-t-elle le francais? 

Miss Ward. Well, I’m not intending to speak it now. 
You’ll understand my English, I think. (Points to 
table.) Punch. (Points to glasses.) Serve (points off 
stage) people. (Fifi comes back stage to punch bowl.) 
Come along, Ted. (Starts to C. in F.) 

Fifi (coyly offering Ted a glass of punch). Mon¬ 
sieur.? (Ted starts toward her.) 

Miss Ward (sharply). No—monsieur doesn’t care 




58 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


for any. {To Ted.) We’ll join the others. {As Miss 
Ward and Ted go off the stage at C. in F. he turns and 
smiles at Fifi.) 

Enter Dennis from R. with holly and mistletoe. 

Dennis. Well—look who’s here. 

Fifi {clasping hands). L’Americain! 

Dennis. Bong jour, Frenchy. 

Fifi. C’est bon soir, n’est-ce-pas 

Dennis. Can’t you speak any English.^ 

Fifi. Je ne comprends pas I’anglais—vairy much. 
{Comes to C.) 

Dennis. But I can talk with my eyes— can you.^ 
Parley— {points) eyes.? 

Fifi. Oui, oui, monsieur. 

Dennis. Wait just a minute. {Takes book from 
pocket.) Oh, darn it all. {Turns pages rapidly.) This 
tells you how to order oysters—and buy a cigarette— 
and get a hair cut—but it don’t say a thing about get¬ 
ting acquainted with a pretty girl. 

Fifi {clasping hands). Vous etes un beau marin— 
Vous combattez pour la patrie, vous— 

Dennis {coming closer). Hold on a minute, cherie 
—you don’t mind if I call you cherie, do you.? 

Fifi. Oh, non—non, monsieur. 

Dennis {taking sprig of mistletoe). Do you know 
what this means.? 

Enter Kate at C. in F. unseen by either. 

Fifi. Un baiser, n’est-ce-pas.? 

Dennis {holding mistletoe over her). I don’t know 
what baiser is, but I can show you all about this. 
{Leans over.) 

Kate {coming down L.). Oh, can you.? Mr. Winton 
ain’t paying you to do any demonstrating work like 



59 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 

that as far as I know. Get busy and put that holly on 
the mantel. Miss Ellen sent me to help you. (Turns to 
Fifi. ) And as for you, Fifi, or whatever your silly name 
is—Miss Aimee wants you. Aimeel (As Fifi starts out 
C. in F.) No—not that way— (points) the back door. 
(Fifi hurries to R., turns, smiles archly at Dennis and 
goes out.) 

Kate (as they arrange holly and mistletoe on man¬ 
tel). Somebody else to fly a service flag, I reckon. 

Dennis. What’s it to you.? 

Kate. Nothing—nothing at all. 

Dennis. Pity a fellow can’t be nice and friendly to 
a strange little French girl without all this fuss. 

Kate. There’s no use in overdoing the friendliness. 

Dennis. People kiss a lot in France. 

Kate. Oh, do they.? Well, this ain’t France. 
(Crosses to L.) And if she’s a croquette, I don’t think 
much of them. 

Dennis (following her). Say, Kate, Gregory’s here 
—ain’t he.? 

Kate. There you go again—still harping on that 
old robbery after making me snoop around in other 
people’s affairs. 

Dennis. It ain’t an old robbery—it’s a new one. 

Kate. Just the same—you can count me out. 

Dennis. Do you mean that you won’t help.? 

Kate. That’s exactly what I mean—and you’d bet¬ 
ter give it up, too, Dennis; for if it happened to be a 
lady robber you’d never have the heart to arrest her. 

Dennis. Well, Fm going to keep my eyes open. 

Kate. And so am I. But I’m not trailing that rob¬ 
ber any more; I’m fixing my gaze on that foreign crea¬ 
ture with the cat name. She’ll bear watching. 

Enter Alison hurriedly from C. in F. 




60 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Alison. Where’s Miss Ward? 

Kate. She’s upstairs. Anything I can do for you, 
Miss Alison? 

Alison. Do you know if there’s any antiseptic gauze 
around? 

Kate {opening drawer). Right here in the table 
drawer, Miss Alison. Miss Ellen keeps it handy on 
account of the children. Here’s some peroxide, too. 
{Takes gauze and peroxide from drawer.) Hurt your¬ 
self ? 

Alison. No. I’ve just torn open Mr. Gregory’s 
finger with this pin—and he’s trailing blood drops pro¬ 
miscuously. 

As Gregory enters from C. in F. 

Alison. Once more, Tom, you are saved by timely 
aid. Help me, Kate, will you? {As they hind up his 
finger.) That’s not half bad. 

Kate. Anything else. Miss Alison? 

Alison. I think not. Thanks a lot. 

Kate: Then Dennis and I will be moving on. 
{Crosses to R.) 

Alison {seating herself at C.). Had any luck with 
the mistletoe, Dennis? 

Dennis {gloomily). I ain’t having luck of any kind 
these days. Miss Alison. And I can’t see much light 
ahead. 

Alison. That’s a sign that you’re about to turn a 
corner. Wait for the New Year. {Exeunt Dennis and 
Kate at R., Dennis gazing searchingly at Gregory.) 

Gregory. Why does that fellow favor me with his 
scrutiny? When I’m near him he never takes his eye off 
of me. 

Alison. He’s probably wondering how you’ve es- 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


61 


caped the catastrophes which I’ve heaped upon you. 
Most people regard you as a doomed creature. 

Gregory. You have been very generous with your 
souvenirs, Alison. {Sits hy her.) 

Alison. Haven’t I? Our first meeting was made 
memorable by the sprain; then we went rowing—and 
I upset the boat. As soon as your wrist was better, 
I sent you a golf ball that made you limp for a week; 
and now I’m responsible for your shedding life blood 
over your perfectly nice handkerchief. 

Gregory. What’s left for me.^^ 

Alison. Well, we’re having target practice tomor¬ 
row ; perhaps I can shoot you. 

Gregory. Don’t aim at my heart—you’ve already 
damaged that. 

Alison {rising). Now, Tom, cut out the sentimental 
part. It doesn’t go with us. {Crosses to punch bowl.) 
Here—have some punch; it may revive you. {Hands 
him glass of punch.) 

Gregory. Sure it isn’t poisoned.^ {Drinks.) 

Alison. Sure. I didn’t make it. 

Gregory {handing glass to her). Thanks. One 
compensation for being wounded is—being waited upon. 

Alison {returning to settee). Your guardian angel 
should sound a-note of warning whenever I drag you 
to the precipice of destruction. But, maybe you haven’t 
a guardian angel. {Sits.) 

Gregory. They’re rather out of style, aren’t they.? 
I’d prefer somebody more tangible to caution me. 

Alison. What do you mean.? 

Gregory. Nothing—in particular. I was just think¬ 
ing of a former pal who used to warn me by saying, 
“Have a cigarette, Tom.” 

Alison. Warn you.? 



62 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Gregory. At various times in my life I’ve been in 
—danger, we’ll say. These few words always put me 
on my guard—and oftentimes saved me. 

Aeison. But why these particular words.? 

Gregory. I once saw a play in which the hero was 
saved from dire peril by the use of this ordinary and 
commonplace expression. We—my pal and I—were 
impressed, and adopted it as a signal. 

Alison. I’m interested. You’ve never told me about 
yourself. 

Gregory. You’ve never asked. 

Alison. You might know that I’d be dying to hear. 

Gregory. The fates have never given me the gift 
of reading the feminine mind, Alison. 

Alison. What danger were you in.? 

Gregory. Oh, every man at some time or other finds 
himself in a tight place. Whether he escapes or not 
depends upon his own nerve and— 

Alison. The friendly warning. 

Gregory. Exactly. 

Alison. I’ll help you out with that. Hereafter, 
when deadly distress may encompass you, you’ll hear 
my clarion voice resounding with—“Have a cigarette, 
Tom.” 

Gregory. Thanks. {Pauses.) It’s worth the risk of 
a danger if there could be a chance of your saving me. 

Alison {rising). Alison in the role of a life saver! 
Tom, your sense of humor is undeveloped. {Crosses and 
sits on arm of davenport.) 

Gregory {following her). Look here, Alison. The 
time has come— 

Alison {mockingly). “The walrus said—to talk of 
many things.” Don’t be silly, Tom. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


63 


Gregory. I was never more serious. And you’re 
going to hear what I have to say. 

Alison. Not unless I want to! 

Gregory. But you want to! 

Alison. Of course I want to. Go on. 

Gregory. Very well. Will you marry me.?^ 

Alison. Is this a proposal.? 

Gregory. Sounds like it. 

Alison. Dear me! I didn’t recognize it. With im¬ 
passioned love one naturally expects fervent oratory, 
tender glances and a throbbing pulse. You haven’t a 
symptom. 

Gregory. That’s because I’m im love with a literary 
genius instead of a flesh and blood girl. 

Alison. Don’t call me a literary genius. It makes 
me furious. 

Gregory. That’s why I used the term. 

Alison. Sometimes I think I hate you, Tom Greg¬ 
ory. 

Gregory. But you really don’t. On the other hand, 
you love me. 

Alison {rising). How dare you.? 

Gregory. Why you loved me ever since that day 
you knocked the breath out of me. 

Alison. It isn’t so. 

Gregory. Oh, yes, it is; and I’ve known that you 
were—mine—from the very first; with every physical 
torture you inflicted upon me, I grew surer of the fact. 

Alison. I never heard so matter-of-fact a lover. 
(Crosses to settee.) 

Gregory (following her). Then say the word and 
you may have the fervent oratory, the tender glances— 
and a lot of other things thrown in. 



64 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Alison (as she seats herself). Let’s talk common 
sense, Tom. 

Gregory. Agreed. (Stands at her right.) 

Alison. You’re the best pal in the world. Why I 
don’t mind telling you that never in my life have I been 
so happy as in these three months of our comradeship. 

Gregory. We like the same books; we enjoy the 
same things; we have the same ideas. In your own 
words, that is the safest basis for matrimony. 

Alison. Yes, but I can’t marry you. 

Gregory. Would you mind telling me why.'’ 

Alison. First, I don’t know anything about you. 

Gregory. But, my dear girl, there’s nothing to tell. 
I’ve lived the life of the average American man with 
no spectacular details. 

Alison. That doesn’t quite satisfy. 

Gregory. Then—next ? 

Alison. You haven’t helped to win the war, and I 
could never marry a man who had failed to serve. 

Gregory. Perhaps I’ve helped—in a way you don’t 
suspect. (Crosses to L. hack of settee.) 

Alison. Then—tell me about it. 

Gregory (coming down L.). I can’t—just yet. 
Isn’t my word sufficient.?’ 

Alison. I’m afraid not. 

Gregory. Is there anything else.? 

Alison. Yes. I’m in love with another man. 

Gregory (after a pause). Do I know him.? 

Alison. No. I don’t know him myself. 

Gregory. What? 

Alison. I’ve just corresponded with him. He’s an 
American aviator. 

Gregory. Is he in this country.? 

Alison. Yes. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


65 


Gregory. Where ? 

Alison. I don’t know. 

Gregory. Why don’t you know.?^ 

Alison. He hasn’t written lately. 

Gregory. And you’ve never seen him.^^ 

Alison. Never. 

Gregory {coming closer). You mean to say that 
you’re in love with a man you’ve never seen—who doesn’t 
even write to you—and who hasn’t cared enough to 
hunt you up.? 

Alison. You have no right to speak like that. 

Gregory. Oh, yes, I have; and if he is all I have 
to fight I’ll win out. {Pauses.) I’ll win out, anyway. 

Alison. But I don’t love you. 

Gregory {leaning over back of settee). I’m not so 
sure of that, Alison. Listen. In days of old, people 
believed in signs—and waited for them. Some day— 
soon—a sign will come to me— {'places hand over hers 
which rests on hack of settee) and when it does—I’ll 
know. 

Enter Ruth at L. with Bobby and Aimee. 

Ruth. Oh, dear! Are we intruding.? 

Alison {rising). Not a bit of it. We’re the ones 
who are intruding if stockings are to be hung. 

Gregory. Anyway, it’s our dance, Alison. {As thep 
dance off at C. in F.). Keep that pin away from me. 

Bobby {running to farther side of mantel). I want 
to hang my stocking on this side of the mantel. I 
drove the nails right here. 

Ruth. Then shall we take the other side, Aimee.? 
{As the children hang the stockings.) Now! All ready 
for Santa Claus! {Seats herself on davenport with 
Bobby on her right and Aimee on her left.) 



66 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Bobby. Has anybody ever seen Santa Claus, Aunt 
Ruth? I mean the real Santa Claus. 

Ruth. Nobody has ever seen him—^but everybody’s 
listened to him. 

Bobby. Listened to him? 

Ruth. Of course. Haven’t you noticed that at 
Christmas time everybody tries to do something for 
everybody else? 

Bobby. Yes— 

Ruth. Well, that’s because they listen to Santa 
Claus. 

Bobby. Does Santa Claus tell us to think of other 
people ? 

Ruth. He sends his little fairy to tell us. The 
fairy’s name is Christmas Spirit and she whispers just 
three little words—and the three little words are-— 
“Make somebody happy.” 

Bobby {putting his arm around her neck). Then the 
fairy must whisper to you all the time, Aunt Ruth. 
You’re always making somebody happy. 

Ruth. Oh, Bobby dear, I wish I could! 

Enter Dick from C. in F. 

Dick. Hello—am I in on this party? (Aimee leaves 
Ruth and rushes to him.) 

Ruth. Aimee has answered that question, hasn’t 
she? Whenever you appear, I’m deserted. 

Dick {seating himself on hassock and drawing Aimee 
to him). Stockings all hung? What do you suppose 
Santa Claus expects to put into them? 

Aimee. A doll baby. 

Dick. Of course. 

Bobby {who is lying before fire). And a soldier suit 
just like yours. Uncle Dick. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


67 


Dick. That’s pretty big for a stocking, old fellow. 
I wonder if Santa Claus won’t put it under the tree. 

Aimee. What will there be on the tree for me.? 

Dick. Oh, there will be. a shining star of good for¬ 
tune, a feather from the bluebird of happiness, a golden 
link from the chain of friendship, all the thistle down of 
childish dreams—and, last of all, the glimmering, shim¬ 
mering star dust of love! 

Aimee (after a pause). Uncle Dicky.? 

Dick. Yes.? 

Aimee. Why don’t you say something like a doll 
baby.? 

Dick. Why, darling, there’ll be dozens of them—• 
and anything else you wish. 

Ruth. Oh, Dick—Dick—such a disciplinarian 1 

Dick. Well, her first Christmas with me shall be a 
happy one if I can make it so. (Rises.) May I stay 
here for a moment.? * 

Ruth. If our little corner isn’t too quiet after all 
the Christmas fun—out there. 

Dick (as he sits by Ruth with Aimee" in his lap.) 
It’s quiet that I love. (To Bobby, who has been gazing 
thoughtfully into the fire). What are you thinking 
about, old man.? 

Bobby. The Spirit of Christmas. 

Dick. Who is the Spirit of Christmas.? 

Ruth. Santa Claus’ emissary, Dick. 

Bobby. And she tells everybody to make somebody 
else happy. 

Dick. Christmas Day is the time to find happiness, 
Bobby. 

Bobby. Then why doesn’t everybody find it? 

Ruth. We can’t always explain that, dear. Some¬ 
times a person’s happiness is so near that he can’t see it. 



68 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Bobby. Just like the bluebird in the play.^^ 

Ruth. Exactly. Suppose we make a wish tonight, 
Bobby, a wish that the Spirit of Christmas may help 
everybody to find the happiness which is—nearest him. 

Bobby. That’s a beautiful wish—isn’t it. Uncle 
Dick.? 

Dick. Just the kind of a wish Aunt Ruth would 
make. Let’s make another wish that this wish will 
come true. 

Ruth {laughing). How serious we’re getting—and 
on this jolly Christmas Eve. 

Dick. It is a jolly Christmas Eve, isn’t it.? Snow 
without—an open fire—good friends—light hearts— 
and— 

Ruth. Memories! Oh, Dick, the house is so full of 
them. Why, I’ve been thinking tonight how many chil¬ 
dren must have hung their stockings before this very 
fireplace; how many loves, griefs, joys have passed into 
the Long Ago; how many happy ghosts of other days 
must watch us here, tonight. Oh, Dick, it’s wonderful 
to live with memories! 

Dick. Ruth—does it mean that to youP 

Ruth. It means—everything—to me. I don’t won¬ 
der that your brain creates such beautiful things with 
—this—as an inspiration; I don’t wonder that the prize 
came to you. 

Dick {eagerly). Anne told you? 

Ruth. Yes. And we’re so very happy about it. 

Dick {thoughtfully). Twenty-five thousand dollars! 

Ruth. The work isn’t measured by money, Dick. 
One thinks only of the you that it symbolizes—the ef¬ 
fort, the ambition, the hopes— 

Dick. And the dreams, Ruth. So many dreams are 
a part of it. 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


69 


Ruth. Every beautiful thing has its beginning in a 
dream. 

Dick (as he puts his hand on hers). How—you— 
understand. 

Enter Robert and Anne from C. in F. 

Anne. We’re looking for a somebody by the name 
of Bobby! (They come down C.) 

Bobby (running to her). Oh, mother, it isn’t bed¬ 
time—please say it isn’t bedtime I 

Anne. Why it’s way past bedtime, dear. 

Bobby (going to Robert). Daddy—don’t make me 
go. Why, there’s just one Christmas Eve in all the 
year. (Anne draws hassock to right of davenport and 
seats herself.) 

Robert. But look here, sonny. It’s almost time for 
Santa Claus—and he can’t come until you’re asleep. 

Bobby. Aimee and I want to watch for him. 

Robert. I don’t think that’s quite fair to the old 
fellow, do you.P If he wanted you to see him he’d come 
in the daytime. 

Bobby. But he wouldn’t know we were watching. 
We’d keep very quiet. 

Robert. Do you suppose you can hide anything 
from Santa Claus Come now,—dad will go with you. 

Bobby. And tell me a story 

Robert. As many as you like. 

Bobby. Then it’s all right, I guess. (Runs to 
Anne.) Goodnight, mother. 

Anne (as she kisses him). I’m coming in a few min¬ 
utes, dear. You don’t suppose I’d let anybody else tuck 
you in on Christmas Eve, do you.^ 

Enter Fifi from L. 



70 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Bobby. Here comes Fifi. Now Aimee will have to 
go, too. 

Robert. Then we’ll go on ahead. {Exeunt Robert 
and Bobby at L.) 

Fifi {coming down L.). Mademoiselle Aimee—il est 
temps de te coucher maintenant. 

Aimee. Non, non, Fifi. Je ne veux pas aller. Jc 
vais avec Uncle Dicky. 

Dick. But remember, dear, what’s going to happen 
tonight. Now run along—and I’ll come up pretty soon 
to see that you’re all right. (Aimee kisses him, goes to 
Fifi and they pass out at L.) 

Anne. Where did you pick up that bit of femininity, 
Dick? 

Dick. Who—Fifi? I wanted the child to remember 
her French; advertised for a French nurse—and she 
answered. Don’t you like her? 

Anne. Personally, I haven’t had a chance to form 
an opinion; {laughingly) but she seems to be attractive 
to the masculine contingency of your house party. 

Dick. What do you mean? 

Anne. Oh, nothing in particular; only Ted appears 
to be smitten. 

Dick. Tedf 

Anne. The same. Even under the wrathful eye of 
Doris. 

Ruth. What is the matter with Ted? He’s posi¬ 
tively flirtatious. {Laughingly.) Why, he even tried 
to kiss me under the mistletoe—right before Doris, too. 

Anne. He’s tried it on every one, Ruth—so don’t 
feel conspicuous. Being married—I’ve escaped. 

Dick. Irresponsible kid, isn’t he? 

Anne. Don’t talk of irresponsibility, Dick—after 
your last exploit. Ruth, did he tell you that he cashed 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


71 


his check for twenty-five thousand dollars and brought 
home the money and carefully stored it away in his 
desk ? 

Ruth. Dick! How foolish! 

Dick. Isn’t it.^ But sometimes it’s fun to do foolish 
things. I wanted to see that money—the first big thing 
I’ve ever earned. Tomorrow I’ll be sure that it is duly 
deposited in the bank. 

Anne. Just the same, it worries me to have it here. 
This last robbery—so near us—makes me a bit nervous. 

Dick. Nobody knows it is here except you people, / 
Bob and Gregory. 

Ruth. Gregory 

Dick. He came in while I was storing my wealth 
in the desk over there—had a valuable packet which he 
wanted me to keep for him. 

Ruth. What was in the packet? 

Dick. I don’t know. He said—valuables. By Jove 
—why didn’t I put it all away behind the secret panel! 

Ruth. What secret panel? 

Dick {rising). Haven’t I ever showed you? {Goes 
to mantel, touches a spring and reveals hidden aper¬ 
ture. Ruth moves to end of davenport next Anne.) 
There! It’s been a part of the house since it was 
built. 

Anne. Then hide all the money in that very spot. 
It’s much safer. 

Dick. Later on I will. {Sits at Ruth’s right.) 
Heavens—but I’m tired! 

Anne. You’ve been working too hard. 

Dick. And sleeping too little. Sometimes I’ve 
slaved over those designs all night long; and whenever 
I’ve felt free to indulge in a good rest I’ve wakened 



72 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


to find mjself seated at my desk—and, subconsciously, 
hard at work. 

Anne. That won’t do. 

Dick. Oh, I’ll be normal again now. As long as 
the responsibility of my drawings was on my mind, I 
didn’t seem able to throw off the burden—even when 
asleep. 

Anne {after a pause). I hate to worry you, Dick— 
but I feel that I really should tell you. 

Dick {leaning forward). Tell me— what.? 

Anne. That something very puzzling has happened. 
To be brief—I’ve lost my pearls. 

Ruth. Anne! 

Dick. You mean—they’ve been stolen.? 

Anne. I mean that they’ve disappeared. How — 
I don’t know. 

Dick. When did you have them last.? 

Anne. Tonight—before dinner. I left the neck¬ 
lace on my dressing table just for a moment—while I 
went to Bobby’s room. When I came back the neck¬ 
lace was gone. 

Dick. The servants— 

Anne. Impossible, Dick. They’ve been with you 
too long and have served you too faithfully. Aunt 
Ellen trusts them implicity. As to Kate—Kate is one 
of our family. 

Dick. Kate is out of the question, of course. 

Anne. 'And at that particular time the servants 
were all busy. 

Ruth. Their rooms are not near you, anyway. 

Anne. Of course not. Cecily is on one side of me— 
Mr. Gregory on the other. 

Dick. And the only entrance to the room is through 
the door which leads from the main hall. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


73 


Anne. I was in Bobby’s room directly across the 
hall, Dick. Both doors were open and nobody could 
have entered my room without my knowledge. 

Dick. Then— 

Anne. It’s nobody in the house—I feel sure of that. 
I’d sooner believe that the guilty person is the myste¬ 
rious individual who is frequenting the neighborhood. 

As Alison enters from C. in F. 

Anne. Suppose we say nothing about it; there is 
no use in causing unnecessary excitement. 

Alison {laughingly). Does anybody know what’s 
the matter with Ted.? {Comes down C.) 

Ruth. We’ve just been wondering. 

Alison. He acts like a lunatic—or worse. Tried to 
kiss me under the mistletoe—and Doris glaring at us 
like a wild beast. I loathe silly, sentimental men. {To 
Dick.) Cecily’s looking for you, Dick. 

Dick {rising). Then I’ll be off—if you people will 
excuse me. {Goes to C. in F.) 

Anne {rising). I’m going too. 

Alison. Don’t let me break up the family party. 

Anne. You’re not, my dear. Bobby’s waiting for 
me to tuck him in—so I must hurry. Wait, Dick. 
{Exeunt Anne and Dick at C. in F.) 

Ruth {eagerly as she hurries to Alison). Have you 
heard from your birdman.? 

Alison. Not a word. {Seats herself on settee.) 

Ruth. Then something’s happened. {Sits by Ali¬ 
son.) 

Alison. But he promised to come—at Christmas. 

Ruth. You still believe in him, Alison.? 

Alison. I can’t help it. 

Ruth. Even though it has been three months since 
you heard from him.? 



74 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Alison. He may have been ill. 

Ruth. Someone could have written for him. 

Alison. The letter may have been lost. 

Ruth. Another could have followed it. 

Alison. You can’t shake my faith in him, Ruth. 

Ruth. Then I won’t try. 

Alison. I told you I’d never marry any other man 
—and I won’t. 

Ruth. What about Tom Gregory? 

Alison. What has he to do with it? 

Ruth. He’s been having a great deal to do with 
you, my dear. That’s all. 

Alison. Sometimes I think I’m half in love with him. 

Ruth. Alison^—I don’t know what to make of you. 

Alison. I don’t know what to make of myself. 

Ruth. But you say you won’t marry anybody but 
this mythical Lawrence Thomas— 

Alison. I mean it. I won’t. 

Ruth. And the very next moment you declare that 
you’re half in love with Tom Gregory. 

Alison. I am. I don’t understand and I don’t pre¬ 
tend to explain it. 

Ruth {placing hand over Alison’s). Alison, please 
drop Mr. Gregory. 

Alison. Drop him! You don’t seem to approve of 
my lovers, Ruth. 

Ruth. I approve of him —but it’s what I don’t 
know about him that bothers me. 

Alison. Just what do you mean? 

Ruth. Well—you must confess that he is a very 
mysterious person. 

Alison. As far as definite facts concerning him— 
yes. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 75 


Ruth. Has he ever told you anything about himself 
—or his past.f^ 

Alison. Never. 

Ruth. Has he ever mentioned his profession 

Alison. No. 

Ruth. Don’t you think that his being so non-com¬ 
mittal is a little strange.^ 

Alison. Perhaps. {Rises.) What are you trying to 
tell me, Ruth.?^ {Walks to desk.) 

Ruth {following). I shouldn’t repeat it—for after 
all it’s mere suspicion—and I don’t believe it. 

AiiIson. Perfectly good reason that you ought to 
tell me. 

Ruth. Well, has it ever occurred to you that the 
neighborhood robberies date from the time of his first 
appearance ? 

Alison. You’re not insinuating that he— 

Ruth. I’m not insinuating anything. I’m repeat¬ 
ing rumor. 

Alison. Who started this rumor.? 

Ruth. Dennis grew a little suspicious—and men¬ 
tioned it to Aunt Ellen. 

Alison. And you take Dennis’ word.? 

Ruth. I’m not taking anybody’s word. I told you 
I didn’t believe it. 

Alison. Then why are you taking the trouble to 
tell me.? 

Ruth. Simply to enforce my point. He is a bit 
mysterious—we don^t know about him—and until we 
do —go slowly. We probably shouldn’t have listened 
to such a suspicion—had not our own home been entered. 

Alison. What? 

Ruth. Anne’s pearls are gone—and Dick has twen- 



76 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


ty-five thousand dollars in bank notes—stored away in 
this desk. It makes us a bit nervous. 

Alison. Does anybody know of the money ? 

Ruth. Anne and I—Bob of course—and Mr. Greg- 

Enter Robert from C. in F. 

Robert. Our dance, Ruth. 

Ruth. Oh, I’d almost forgotten. Will you come, 
too, Alison 

Alison {crossing to R.). I’m dancing this with Tom. 
I’ll w^ait here for him. {Exeunt Robert and Ruth C. 
in F.) 

Enter Doris and Gregory from C. in F. Alison, 
unseen hy them, steps behind one of the curtains which 
hang at the door down R. 

Doris {drawing Gregory to C.). Will you do me a 
favor, Mr. Gregory.? 

Gregory. Of course I will. 

Doris. Then—kiss me. Or pretend that you’re 
kissing me. 

Gregory. I don’t understand. 

Doris. Oh, don’t try to! Just do as I say—and 
I’ll explain later. 

As Ted appears at C. in F. 

Doris. Here comes Ted. Now! (Gregory puts his 
arm around her and bends his head.) 

As Ted enters. 

Ted {apoplectically). Doris I Doris! 

Doris {calmly powdering her nose). Well.? 

Ted {hurrying to her). I’m—I’m—ashamed of 
you. 

Doris. Then you know just how I feel about you. 
Is this our dance.? {She takes his arm.) We’ve had a 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


77 


heavenly time, haven’t we, Mr. Gregory. We’ve— (stops 
suddenly and gasps) Oh! Oh! (Shrieks.) Oh! 

Ted. What’s the matter.? 

Doris. My bracelet—the jeweled one you gave me 
—it’s gone, Ted—it’s gone! 

Ted. Are you sure you wore it.? 

Doris. Sure? I remember catching my scarf on it 
just before I danced with you, Mr. Gregory. 

Ted. Then suppose we look in the other room right 
away. (They hurry off C. in F.) 

Gregory looks hastily around and strolls slowly to 
desk. Dennis appears at C. in F. and stealthily fol¬ 
lows him. Gregory leans over desk and attempts to 
open the drawer. 

Alison (stepping forward and taking the box of cig¬ 
arettes from the mantel). Have a cigarette, Tom! 
(Gregory straightens—looks around—sees Dennis— 
and coolly takes the proffered cigarette.) 

Gregory. Thanks. Our dance, I believe.? 

Alison. Yes. (To Dennis.) That is all, Dennis. 

Dennis. Yes, Miss Alison. (Goes out R.) 

Gregory. Do you remember my saying that— 
someday soon—a sign would come to me.? The sign has 
come—and you have told me what I wanted to know. 

Alison. You overestimate my interest, Mr. Greg¬ 
ory. Please consider this incident—and others—closed. 
You’ll excuse me from dancing.? 

Gregory. Certainly. (Exit C. in F. Alison seats 
herself on settee.) 

Enter Robert and Anne from C. in F. 

Anne. What have you done to Tom Gregory.? He 
looks utterly demoralized. (Robert crosses to daven¬ 
port and seats himself, head in hands.) 



78 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Alison. Nonsense. Excusing oneself from a dance 
brings no such tragic result. IVe a wretched headache 
—and I think I’ll go to mj room. (Rises.) Anne, will 
you excuse me to anyone who may ask for me.^ 

Anne. Of course I shall. Is there anything I can 
do for the headache.? 

Alison. Nothing. It will be gone by morning. 
Good night. (Exit L.) 

Anne (reflectively.) Alison on the verge of tears! 
What will happen next? (As she advances.) Bob? 
(Robert does not answer.) Bob? 

Robert (looking up). I beg your pardon, dear. I 
was a thousand miles away. 

Anne (as she sits by him). And I resent even the 
figurative distance. 

Robert (drawing her to him). Then it doesn’t 
exist. 

Anne. But it does exist. For the first time in nine 
years. Bob, an intangible, indefinable something has 
come between us. 

Robert. Nothing could ever come between us, Anne. 

Anne. But something has. 

Robert. When I married you I vowed to myself 
that—never—consciously—would I cause you a mo¬ 
ment’s worry. 

Anne. And when I married you I promised to share 
whatever should come to us. Have you been quite fair 
to me ? 

Robert. But to bring you anxiety— 

Anne. Oh, Bob— Boh! Don’t you know—can’t you 
realize—that the greatest anxiety I have ever known is 
the fact that you don’t trust me? 

Robert. Don’t put it that way. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


79 


Anne. If I’m not strong enough—or woman 
enough— 

Robert. Oh, you’ve been everything to me, Anne— 
you know it—that’s why it is hard to confess that I’m 
a miserable failure. 

Anne. Never a failure—to me. Bob. 

Robert. It’s been the hardest year of my lile. 
First, the terrible disappointment because I couldn’t 
serve my country. 

Anne. What do you mean. Bob.? 

Robert. That I couldn’t—that’s all. I went to 
every physician in the country—and each one of them 
told me the same thing—that I wouldn’t last a month 
in a training camp. (As she turns aside.) Don’t look 
that way, Anne; it’s all right now, or I shouldn’t be 
telling you. The doctor says I’m out of danger and 
that another year will finish the cure. 

Anne. I hadn’t expected— this. Oh, Bob—Bob— 
are you sure—or are you just— 

Robert. Would I be telling you, dear, unless I 
were sure, after keeping it from you all this time.? 
It’s been pretty hard to know that you were wondering 
why I didn’t go—harder still to explain to my boy why 
he couldn’t have a soldier father. 

Anne. You should have told me. Bob. 

Robert. No, Anne; it was my fight. 

Anne. And I’m prouder of you than if you had 
led a regiment to victory. 

Robert. It’s—heaven to hear you say that, Anne 
—to know that you understand— 

Anne. Then we’ll let the New Year ring in the 
truest happiness w'e’ve ever had; and we’ll forget what’s 
past and gone. 

Robert. We can’t forget. 



80 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Anne. And why ? 

Robert. I’m facing absolute ruin, Anne; I may 
not have a penny to call my own. 

Anne. I don’t understand. 

Robert. I’ve speculated—and I’ve lost. 

Anne {leaning back and sighing). Is that all.? 

Robert. All? It means that my dream of gaining 
everything for you and the boy—has vanished. 

Anne {after a pause). Bob, I’ve had a dream, too. 
I’ve had it always—but you wouldn’t listen because you 
thought in terms of dollars and cents—of palaces and 
jewels. {Pauses.) Do you remember the little house 
on the right of the road just before we reach the city.? 
It has quaint dormer windows, a garden of sweet, old- 
fashioned flowers, a lilac bush by a wide-open front 
door. If Bobby and I could stand by that lilac bush 
and watch you coming up the shadowy walk—I think 
I’d be the happiest woman in the world. 

Robert. Are you just saying—this—to help me 
along.? 

Anne. I’m saying it because I have no other ambi¬ 
tion or thought beyond that simple little home—with 
you. 

Robert. But to start all over again—I haven’t the 
courage. 

Anne. Nonsense. Perhaps things are not so hope¬ 
less as you think. 

Robert. My broker hopes to realize something, and 
an investment is still hanging fire. If I had twenty- 
five thousand dollars right now I might be able to tide 
things over. 

Anne {thoughtfully). Twenty-five thousand dol¬ 
lars ! 

Robert, Anne, you’ve been such a trump— will you 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


81 


be able ever to trust me again—when I say that Dick’s 
money, too, is gone? 

Anne. I don’t believe I understand you. Bob. 

Robert. I invested not only my own funds—but 
Dick’s— 

Anne. Diehls? 

Robert. Oh, I did it for—him; I thought it was 
safe—and this is the end of it all! 

Anne. Have you told Dick? 

Robert. I don’t intend to tell him; I’ll make it up 
some way—for I can’t confess that I’ve abused his 
trust, that I’m responsible for his loss. 

Anne {rising). But you will tell Dick. {Crosses 
and touches hell button.) We can’t begin all over again. 
Bob, if any shadow threatens our happiness. 

As Dennis enters from R. 

Anne. Tell Mr. Richard to join us here. {Exit 
Dennis C. in F.) 

Robert {as he goes to Anne, who stands at hack 
of settee). Anne, I’ve never loved you as I love you 
now. {Takes her in his arms.) 

Enter Dick at C. in F. 

Dick {laughingly). Surely—three’s a crowd. 

Anne. Not when we’ve sent for you. (Robert 
sits on settee.) 

Dick. What’s wrong? 

Anne. Bob has something to say to you. {Turns 
hack to audience.) 

Robert. Your money, Dick—left to my care—has 
gone. 

Dick {at his left). What’s become of it? 

Robert. I’ve invested it—unfortunately—unwisely. 
There is little chance of my making good the loss; and 




82 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


while I did it—with the best of intentions, I don’t ask 
for any leniency, any exoneration on your part. 

Dick. Is it all gone? 

Robert. Practically. 

Dick. And you’ve been afraid to tell me? 

Robert. Almost. 

Dick {after a 'pause). Bob, some years ago I begged 
for a year in Paris—to follow what you all thought a 
will-of-the-wisp idea. I had disappointed you—for 
you had formed other plans for me; but, one morning, 
before I started, you came to me, laid your check book 
on the desk and said, “What’s mine, kid, is yours.” 
Fate has been pretty kind to me. Bob; for now she has 
given me, after all this time, the chance to use those 
very words which meant so much to me. {Holds out his 
hand.) Bob—old fellow—best brother a willful boy 
ever had—what’s mine—is yours. {Pauses.) Won’t 
you understand—how I feel about it? How happy it 
makes me to be able to say—what you said to me.^ 
(Robert takes his hand; Anne turns.) 

Enter Cecily C. in F. 

Cecily {coming down C.). Dear me! I never find 
Dick alone. 

Anne. We’re going now, Cecily. {Puts her arm 
around Dick’s shoulder.) 

Cecily. What’s the matter? You all look like sol¬ 
emn old owls. 

Dick. Wait for me. Bob. {Exeunt Robert and 
Anne at L.) 

Cecily. I never saw such a sentimental family. 
Anne needn’t be so demonstrative. {Sits on davenport.) 

Dick {leaning over hack of davenport). Anne has 
been a good sister to me, Cecily. “Guide, philosopher 
and friend”—all in one. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


83 


Cecily. Well, after we’re married I don’t intend to 
have her interfering with my affairs. 

Dick. Interfering? {Sternly.) You forget your¬ 
self. 

Cecily. We’re going to live here all alone, aren’t 
we, Dick.?’ 

Dick {absently). Alone.? Oh, yes—of course. 

Cecily. All alone? 

Dick. Why, yes, Cecily. 

Cecily. We don’t even want Aimee around, do we? 

Dick. What do you mean by that? 

Cecily. Just what I said. 

Dick. What are you planning to have me do with 
Aimee ? 

Cecily. Well, there are many nice orphan homes, 
aren’t there? And they say that they are very at¬ 
tractive and homelike. If you can spare the money, 
we might put her in a boarding school. 

Dick. You don’t mean what you say, do you, 
Cecily? 

Cecily. Of course I mean it. I hate children and 
I don’t want to bother with her. 

Dick. Do you realize that the child is a sacred trust? 

Cecily. I don’t realize anything but your foolish¬ 
ness in bringing her home without asking me. 

Dick. Cecily, that child has become a vital part of 
my existence. She’s my dearest possession. 

Cecily {rising). In that case—choose between us. 
{Stands by mantel.) 

Dick. You mean it? 

Cecily. I mean it. Either Aimee or I must go. 

Dick. You’re speaking on the impulse of the mo¬ 
ment. 



84 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Cecily. I’m speaking what has been on my mind— 
for weeks. 

Dick. What sort of a man would I be if I broke my 
word—if I destroyed that child’s confidence—if I sent 
her away? 

Cecily. You might think of me. 

Dick. And you might think of me. Has that ever 
occurred to you? 

Cecily. You’re selfish, Dick, so selfish that, some¬ 
times, I wonder if wee’ll ever be happy. 

Dick. I’ve been wondering the same thing. {Comes 
to her.) Cecily, is your love great enough to include— 
me? 

Cecily. I don’t know what you mean. 

Dick. Of course you don’t. 

Cecily. And I’m waiting for you to choose. (Dick 
walks to L.) 

Dick {after a pause). I’ve made my choice. 

Cecily {running to him). Oh, Dick, I knew' you’d 
see it my wa^^—I knew that— 

Dick {pushing her aside). You’re mistaken, Cecily. 
I have chosen—the child. 

Cecily. Chosen Aimee—instead of me? 

Dick. I can*do without you more easily than I can 
do without her. 

Cecily. How dare you speak to me like this? 
{Slipping off ring.) Take 3 'our ring. It can never mean 
anything to me. 

Dick {dropping ring in pocket). It never did— 
and it never would. 

Cecily {crossing to davenport). Do you realize 
that this means—goodbye? 

Dick. It is better so, Cecily. I’m not the man to 
make you happy. And as for you— {hesitates) — 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 85 


Cecily {sharply). Well? 

Dick. You’re a butterfly—merely a butterfly. If 
youihad a soul you wouldn’t ask me to sacrifice my man¬ 
hood. That’s all. (Cecily rushes angrily out L.) 

Dick goes slowly to davenport, sinks upon it and 
rests his head in his hands. Aimee enters at L. 

Aimee. Uncle Dicky! You didn’t come to tell me 
goodnight. (Dick turns, holds out his arms and she 
runs into them.) 

Curtain. 


In a few moments the curtain rises upon a dark and 
empty stage. A figure makes its way to the desk, seats 
itself and fumbles with the drawer. Into this darkness, 
Bobby and Aimee creep stealthily from the curtained 
door at R., a tiny flashlight held by Bobby, throwing 
the children's figures into strong relief yet in no way 
revealing the identity of the man at the desk. 

Bobby {as they come closer). Are—you—Santa 
Claus ? 


Curtain. 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


The Third Act. 

Scene I. Christmas Morning. 

Scene: Same as Act II save that an arm chair 
replaces the desk chair. To the accompaniment of 
whistles, drums, etc., the curtain rises upon the assem¬ 
bled house party, gaily opening gifts. Dick, on a step- 
ladder L. U. E., is distributing gifts from the tree. 
Bobby and Robert on settee are intent upon a mechan¬ 
ical toy. Anne is on davenport with Gregory leaning 
over the back. Doris is on stool placed left of daven¬ 
port and Ted is standing back of her. Miss Ward is 
seated at desk and Aeison is perched on the arm of her 
chair. Aimee is in front of the fireplace. Ruth stands 
at Dick’s right. 

Bobby. Is that all, Uncle Dick? 

Dick. That’s all. If anybody is without a present 
let him speak up or forever after hold his peace. 

Miss Ward. You’re an extravagant boy, Dick— 
you’ve always been. And when I look at Aimee in that 
avalanche of toys I wonder what you’re coming to. 

Dick. But—Aunt Ellen—it’s her first Christmas 
with me and— (calls) Aimee? 

Aimee. Yes, Uncle Dicky. 

Dick. Come here a moment. (As she runs to him.) 
Did Santa Claus forget a single thing? 

Aimee. Not a single thing. 

Dick. For if he did—we’ll go to town early in the 
morning and hunt until we find it. (Lifts her on 
ladder.) 


86 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


87 


Anne {as Bobby blows wildly on his horn). Bobby, 
stop tooting that thing; my head is simply splitting. 
And pick up your soldiers, dear; here’s one under my 
chair and dad’s just about to put his foot on another. 
(Bobby obeys.) Why is it that the toys of each succes¬ 
sive generation must always remind us of war when 
we’re doing our best to forget it? 

Robert. Self-preservation, isn’t it, sonny? We men 
are forced to protect ourselves from other men. (Bobby 
sits on floor by Robert.) 

Gregory {glancing at Alison). And from women. 
“The female of the species is more deadly than the 
male.” 

Alison {sarcastically). Dear me! What an original 
sentiment I 

Doris. Of course, Dick, I appreciate your gift to 
me, but I don’t understand why you should have chosen 
a cook book. 

Dick. Perhaps I was thinking of—Ted. 

Ted. Well, you needn’t bother about me. Doris 
cooks like a professional—and I’ve never eaten anything 
like—her salads. 

Doris {soulfully). Ted! (Ruth seats herself on 
settee at Robert’s left.) 

Alison. One can’t keep up with you and Ted. Last 
night you weren’t on speaking terms—and, today, 
there’s danger of overdoing the conventional peace and 
goodwill. 

Doris {loftily). Last night w^as only an incident and 
a mistake. I’ve forgiven Ted for his part in it. 

Alison. Don’t forgive too easily or you’ll have a 
lot of it to do. 

Ted. See here, Doris. I forgave you, too. You 
don’t mention your part in last night’s performance. 



88 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Doris. My part was all for your good, Ted dear; 
I was just trying to make you jealous. 

Ted. You don’t think I really wanted to kiss those 
people, do you.^ Great heavens! Miss Ward told me 
that if I’d flirt with somebody else you’d come to your 
senses. 

Doris. Come to my senses I Well, she told me that a 
little jealousy would teach you a few things. 

Ted. So she’s the cause of all this mixup. {They 
look at her accusingly.) 

Miss Ward {composedly) . Well—didn’t it work.^^ 

Ted {grinning). Something worked all right. 

Miss Ward. You see, there’s a good old theory that 
like cures like; so I put it to a practical test. 

Doris. I’ll never do it again, Ted. 

Ted. You’ll never need to do it. 

Miss Ward. That’s the way to prove that your all- 
of-a-sudden marriage isn’t exactly a failure. 

Doris. All-of-a-sudden 1 I know now that I’ve been 
waiting for Ted all my life. 

Alison. Sometimes a woman keeps waiting for a 
man after she’s married him. 

Doris. You can say the meanest things, Alison. 
And you’ve been a regular old cross patch all morning. 

Miss Ward {hastily). Dick, I wonder why your 
friend hasn’t arrived. 

Dick {looking at watch). Train must be late. Den¬ 
nis has been gone some time. {Gets off step-ladder. 
Aimee runs to front of fireplace.) 

Ruth. A war friend, Dick.^^ 

Dick. Someone I met just before sailing. In fact, 
we came back on the same boat. He’s an aviator. 

Alison {in agitation) . An aviator.? 

Dick {in surprise). Sure. What’s the matter.? 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


89 


AJ.1S01J (sharply). Why, nothing’s the matter. Why 
should there be? 

Anne. I’ve forgotten his name, Dick—except that 
it’s a pretty one. 

Dick. Roger Atherton. 

Gregory (in agitation). Roger Atherton? 

Dick (in surprise). Do you know him? 

Gregory (sharply). Now why should I know him? 

Doris (turning). You’re cross, too, Mr. Gregory. 
You haven’t smiled at me once. 

Alison. Why should he smile at you? (Rises.) I’m 
going to have some breakfast. Come along, Ruth. 
(Ruth rises.) 

Miss Ward. We’ve been breakfasting in relays this 
morning. Mr. Gregory, have you been served? 

Gregory. Quite early, thank you. I indulged before 
I set out upon my solitary walk. 

Dick. Solitary? And on Christmas morning? 
Can’t you do any better than that? 

Gregory. Dennis followed me at a respectful dis¬ 
tance. 

Alison. Hero worship, probably. Did anybody of¬ 
fer you a cigarette? 

Gregory. It wasn’t necessary—fortunately. (Ex¬ 
eunt Alison and Ruth at R. followed by Gregory.) 

Doris. Don’t they say the queerest things? Nobody 
ever knows what they mean. (Rises.) Shall we go to 
breakfast, Ted dearest? 

Ted. Just as you say, darling. 

Doris (as they pass out R.). Or would you rather 
have me make you coffee? 

Robert. Heavens! Were we ever as silly as that, 
Anne? 




90 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Anne. Never. But we were a very exceptional 
couple, you must remember. 

Miss Ward. And each passing year finds you a little 
more exceptional. 

Anne. To think of tins tribute from a member of 
one’s own family! 

Robert. Do you mean it, Aunt Ellen Or is the 
remark intended merely for a Christmas present 

Bobby. That’s no kind of a Christmas present—is 
it. Aunt Ellen Christmas presents are handkerchiefs— 
and automobiles — and cigars — and diamond neck¬ 
laces— 

Anne. And kisses. That’s the kind of a present I 
want. (Bobby runs to Anne, kisses her and then runs 
to Robert.) 

Robert. See here, old man. Do you remember 
what time you made me get up this morning? Well, 
I’m ready for a second breakfast. {As they start off 
R.) Coming, Anne? 

Anne. As soon as I straighten up this fireplace. It 
looks like a toy shop. 

Bobby. Come on, Aimee. {Exeunt Robert and 
Bobby at R.) 

Anne {as she arranges the toys about the fireplace). 
We’re coming, aren’t we, dear? Baby carriage, doll 
buggy and all! {Comes to Dick at C.) Dick—remem¬ 
ber your promise; not a regret, not a worry, not a 
thought of what’s happened. {Puts hand on his shoul¬ 
der.) 

Dick. I promise, Anne. You and Bob have been 
bully about it all. 

Anne. Bully? We look upon her departure as a 
direct act of providence. {To Aimee.) Come, dear. 
{Exit with Aimee at R.) 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


91 


Dick {standing at Miss Ward’s right). Did you 
tell them, Aunt Ellen? 

Miss Ward. I told them. It isn’t necessary to re¬ 
peat what you already know—the fact that your friends 
are more than pleased over the turn affairs have taken. 

Dick. It doesn’t seem quite fair to Cecily. 

Miss Ward. Was Cecily ever quite fair to you, 
Dick ? 

Dick. She never understood me. 

Miss Ward. You put it charitably. 

Dick. And I didn’t understand her. We should not 
have been happy. 

Miss Ward {rising). Happiness never comes unless 
love is willing to give as well as to receive. 

Dick. But I didn’t really love her. I realized that 
when I came from France. 

Miss Ward. We had always realized it. Why did 
you do it, Dick? 

Dick. Infatuation, I suppose. 

Miss Ward. Knowing that you had ceased to care, 
and understanding her shallowness, you still would have 
married her? 

Dick. I should have done my best to make her happy. 

Miss Ward. Fortunately, fate has relieved you of 
the responsibility. Did you part friends? 

Dick. We parted—friendly. Before her train had 
left the station, she had forgotten. That’s Cecily. 

Miss Ward {placing hand upon his shoulder). Dick, 
there is none so blind as he who will not see. The truest, 
sweetest things in life have been yours for the asking— 
and you’ve passed them by. 

Dick. What do you mean? 

Enter Ruth from R. 

Ruth. Oh—I’m interrupting! 



92 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Miss Ward. Not a bit of it. I’m just going. 
{Exit R.) 

Ruth. I’m looking for a stray handkerchief. (As 
she spies the handkerchief lying near the Christmas 
tree.) Oh, here it is! (As he returns it to her.) Dick, 
ever since I heard I’ve been wanting to tell you how 
sorry—how very sorry—I am. 

Dick. We’ll be sorry for the mistake, Ruth—but 
let’s be glad that it was discovered in time. 

Ruth. To think that it should have come to you on 
Christmas Day. 

Dick. Isn’t it better so.^ For now, perhaps, the 
Spirit of Christmas will touch my eyes so that I may 
find the happiness which is nearest me. 

Ruth (as they clasp hands). It’s my Christmas 
wish to you. (Hurries out R.) 

Dick seats himself at desk. In a moment Gregory 
enters from R. 

Gregory (coming to Dick). If it’s convenient, Dick, 
I’ll relieve you of that package I deposited in your 
desk. 

Dick. Couldn’t be more convenient. Let’s see. Was 
it in the left drawer—or the right.? 

Gregory. The left. 

Dick (as he takes keys from pocket). Of course. I 
remember now. (Unlocks drawer and takes out pack¬ 
age.) Better look to see if it’s intact. 

Gregory (as he takes it). That’s not necessary. 
I’m not afraid of the highwayman. 

Enter Dennis from C. in F. 

Dennis. Mr. Atherton’s here, sir. 

Enter Atherton from C. in F. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


93 


Dick {meeting him). Atherton! It’s fine to see you 
again. {They clasp hands.) 

Atherton. And it’s fine to be here. Hope my be¬ 
lated train didn’t cause you any annoyance. {Catch¬ 
ing sight of Gregory.) Well, of all good fortune— 
{starts toward him. Gregory hastily lays a finger on 
his lips to enjoin silence.) 

Dick. Oh—you know Gregory.? 

Atherton. For a moment I thought I did—his re¬ 
semblance to a friend of mine is striking; but I see now 
that I made a mistake. So you’ll have to introduce us 
after all. 

Dick. My house guest. {As Gregory and Ather¬ 
ton shake hands.) Have you breakfasted, Atherton.? 

Atherton. On the train. 

Dick. Then I’ll show you to your room. {To Den¬ 
nis.) Take out the ladder, Dennis. I’ll go with Mr. 
Atherton. {Exeunt Dick and Atherton at L. Dennis 
with ladder goes out at R.) 

Gregory crosses to desk and tears off the covering 
to the package, revealing — apparently—a bundle of 
papers. From the midst of the bundle he extracts a 
small box and drops it into his pocket. As Alison 
enters from R. he slips the bundle in his coat pocket. 

Alison {coming to davenport). Well, I’m here. 
{Sits.) 

Gregory. So I see. {Stands left of davenport.) 
It’s gratifying to know that you granted my request. 

Alison. Curiosity is responsible for my amiability. 
Your note said that you had an explanation to make. 

Gregory. Did it.? Then I confused the pronouns— 
for you are the one who is going to make the explana¬ 
tion. 

Alison. You interest me. 




94 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Gregory. Be serious, Alison—and listen. Last 
night—for some reason unknown to me—you became— 
unfriendly. I have a right to ask the reason. 

Alison. Perhaps I’ve grown—tired—of you. 

Gregory {leaning over the back of the davenport). 
That isn’t fair—and it isn’t true. Because you had 
just told me that you cared for me. 

Alison. I told you nothing of the sort. 

Gregory. But you had given me the sign I asked 
you for. 

Alison. You’re always talking of some ridiculous 
sign. What do you mean.? 

Gregory. Just this. Last night you thought I 
was in danger, didn’t you.? And you gave me the 
friendly warning. If you had been—indifferent—you 
wouldn’t have saved me. 

Alison. Saved you—from what.? 

Gregory. From that lunatic of a Dennis. My back 
was toward him—and he evidently thought I was a 
stranger engaged in the pastime of robbing the desk. 
Why, he might have brained me. 

Alison. What were you doing? 

Gregory. Looking for a package of my own which 
Dick had put in the desk for me. Foolishly I forgot 
that he had the key. 

Alison. Do you expect me to believe such a story? 

Gregory. Do I expect you to believe such a story? 
{Suddenly.) Heavens, Alison! You don’t—you can’t— 
think that of me. {Walks to C.) 

Alison. What else can I think? 

Gregory. A common thief—and in the house of my 
friend. I haven’t deserved such an insult—and I won’t 
forgive it. 

Alison. Has anyone asked you to forgive it? 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


95 


Gregory. A suspect all along—which explains the 
omnipresence of Dennis. Perhaps he acted upon your 
suggestion ? 

Alison (rising). How dare you.?^ Now listen to me 
for a change. 

Gregory (as he crosses to desk and faces her). 
Please consider this incident—and others—closed. 
You’ll excuse me from further discussion.? 

Alison (at C. in F.). Sometimes I think I hate you, 
Tom Gregory. 

Gregory (bowing ironically). I assure you that such 
a feeling on your part is entirely satisfactory to me. 
(Exit Alison angrily at C. in F.) 

Enter Atherton from L . 

Atherton (crossing to Gregory). Tom, I had to 
escape those people for a moment. The joy of finding 
you here has almost knocked me off my feet. 

Gregory. And how do you suppose I felt, old fel¬ 
low, when you entered that door. (As they seat them¬ 
selves on settee.) Tell me of yourself. 

Atherton. Not until you answer a few questions. 
How are you.? 

Gregory. Getting better every day. 

Atherton. And the eyes.? 

Gregory. Almost normal again. Now—take up 
your story where we left off. 

Atherton. The day after you sailed, I received spe¬ 
cial orders, took the next steamer and met Winton. 
We became friends—he asked me for Christmas—and 
here I am. That’s all. 

Gregory. Then you didn’t get my cable—or the 
letter.? 

Atherton. I haven’t had a word of you since you 
left me. You were to send your address. 



96 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Gregory. And I did. We were probably in the 
East at the same time. 

Atherton. Very likely. 

Gregory. Well, I’m glad that this mystifying si¬ 
lence of yours is explained. 

Atherton. What about this mystifying assumed 
name of yours 

Gregory. I’ll disclose that secret in time. 

Atherton. And why in thunderation don’t you 
want me to recognize you? 

Gregory. Because I haven’t quite finished my game. 

Atherton. Tom—what are you doing here? 
{Sound of voices off R.) 

Gregory. I can’t tell you now; but perhaps—this— 
{drops bundle in Atherton’s pocket) will explain to 
you— why —I’m in this part of the country. 

Enter Ruth from R. They rise hastily. 

Ruth {crossing to them). I’m sent to pilot you both 
to the punch bowl. Sounds dreadfully convivial, doesn’t 
it? But the punch is really quite harmless—and Aunt 
Ellen insists that we must celebrate the day by drinking 
each other’s health. 

Atherton {as they pass off R.). Let me have the 
fun of drinking your health first of all. Miss Meredith. 
Won’t you? 

Ruth {as Alison appears at arch). Come on with 
us. 

Alison. Can’t. I’m busy. {Seats herself at desk 
as Atherton, Gregory and Ruth go out at R.) 

Enter Kate at C. in F. 

Kate {crossing to her). I’ve been chasing you all 
the way up the hall. Miss Alison. Here’s a note. 
{Hands her envelope.) 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


97 


Alison. For mef 

Kate. For you. It just came. {Straightens room.) 

Alison {as she reads it). Oh! 

Kate. No bad news, I hope. 

Alison. No. On the contrary, I suppose I should 
call it good news. {Pauses.) A friend is coming—here 
—to see me. 

Kate. An out-of-town friend 

Alison. Quite out-of-town. I’m just wondering 
how he knew I was—here. 

Kate. Don’t you suppose he went to your home 
and they told him where to find you.^ 

Alison. Of course. How stupid of me! Who 
brought the note.^ 

Kate. A small boy—from town. {Exit R.) 

Enter Ruth hurriedly from R. 

Ruth {crossing to Alison). Alison—something has 
happened—something wonderful has liappened! 

Alison. Tell me. 

Ruth. Lawrence Thomas is—here. 

Alison {rising). Here? 

Ruth. In the other room. In fact, Mr. Atherton is 
Lawrence Thomas. 

Alison. I don’t believe it. 

Ruth. But I’ve— proof. 

Alison. What proof 

Ruth. He leaned over to pick up Aunt Ellen’s 
handkerchief and a bundle of letters fell out of his 
pocket. They were addressed to Lawrence Thomas and 
were in your handwriting. 

Alison. Are you sure? 

Ruth. Sure. I’d know your scrawl anywhere. And 
then—the name. 



98 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Alison. But why would he call himself by an as¬ 
sumed name.? 

Ruth. To keep his identity from you until he chose 
to reveal it. 

Alison. Dick calls him Atherton. 

Ruth. Dick may be in the secret. 

Alison. I don’t understand. 

Ruth. Neither do I. But—unless he is Lawrence 
Thomas—how could he have your letters.? 

Alison. He must be Lawrence Thomas. (Hands 
note to her.) Read this. 

Ruth (as she reads it). Of course he is—and lie 
knows you’re here. 

Alison. But does he know that I am Alison Page.? 

Ruth. Not unless you have met him. 

Alison. I haven’t. 

Ruth. He’s following me—here. 

Alison. Then you’ll introduce me as Miss Nelson. 

Ruth. But Alison— 

Alison. If he won’t fight in the open, neither will 
I. (Atherton laughs off stage.) Hush—he’s coming. 

Enter Atherton from R. 

Ruth (meeting him). I’m leaving you with my 
friend for a few moments. Miss Nelson, may I present 
Mr. Atherton.? (Exit R.) 

Atherton. Meeting new friends is a delightful way 
to celebrate the day. Miss Nelson. (Pointing to daven¬ 
port.) Shall we sit here by the fire.? To the overseas 
man such a luxury seems too good to be true. 

Alison (as they seat themselves). You were—in 
aviation, I believe. 

Atherton. In active service until the armistice. 

Alison. And since that time.? 

Atherton. I’ve been engaged in diplomatic work. 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


99 


Alison. Evidently in this country. 

Atherton. Partly. I met Winton on my return 
trip, and this pleasant event is the result of our friend¬ 
ship. 

Alison. Like all other khaki clad men, I suppose 
tlie inevitable girl drew you back to American shores. 

Atherton. Hardly. I’ve had too eventful a career 
to find time for the inevitable girl. (As he notes her 
expression.) Have I said something wrong. Miss Nel¬ 
son 

Alison. Oh, no ; only unusual. 

Atherton. Sometime let us hope that I’ll find time 
to remedy my single blessedness; but as yet my fate 
in the guise of a coming event has failed to cast her 
shadow before. 

Alison. Haven’t you indulged in the usual war cor¬ 
respondence.^ 

Atherton. Oh, to a certain extent. Over there a 
fellow has to have letters—it’s his one diversion; but 
outside of family epistles no correspondence has been 
a necessity to me. 

Alison (after a pause). You’ve been wounded, I 
suppose. 

Atherton. Never. I’ve scrapped with many a 
German, but not a one has left me a souvenir. Dreadful 
record, isn’t it? 

Alison. A fortunate one—for you. 

Atherton. Not from my standpoint. My pal car¬ 
ried off all the honors in tliat line. 

Alison. In what way? 

Atherton. Fought three enemy planes single- 
handed, downed them all, was severely wounded and was 
made an ace—all in one fell swoop. 

Alison. He recovered ? 



100 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Atherton. After several months at the hospital. 

Aeison. And came back with you.^ 

Atherton. On the steamer ahead of me. I did not 
know then that I would be sent to America. 

Alison. You’ve seen him.'^ 

Atherton. I’ve—heard from him. His eyes were 
seriously injured and the physician ordered complete 
rest for a time. 

Alison. This war has been responsible for many 
splendid friendships, I fancy. 

Atherton. Ours has been of long standing. Before 
our venture into aviation we shared diplomatic missions. 

Alison. Dangerous but interesting w'ork. Each 
probably acted as a body guard to the other. 

Atherton. Exactly. We had a foolish way of 
warning each otlier, which in spite of its foolishness 
lielped us out of many critical situations. 

Alison {eagerly). What w^as the warning 

Atherton. Merely—“Have a cigarette.” Sounds 
simple enough, doesn’t it? 

Alison. It sounds—enlightening. (Pauses.) I 
think I have read of your friend’s aerial exploits. 

Atherton. Probably. The papers featured him 
prominently. 

Alison (thoughtfully). Let me see. The name wms 
Lawrence—Lawrence— 

Atherton. Thomas. 

Alison. Quite so. (Drops her handkerchief. Ath¬ 
erton leans over for it and the letters fall on the floor. 
The packet of letters may he placed between them so a 
little shove will cause them to fall apparently from his 
pocket.) Gregory enters unperceived from R. 

Alison (as Atherton picks up the letters). Mr. 
Atherton, you’re a base deceiver. (As she takes letters 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


101 


from him.) A package of letters in a feminine hand¬ 
writing and yet you say you’re quite indifferent to a 
war correspondence. 

Atherton {taking the package from her and drop¬ 
ping them in his pocket). These aren’t mine. 

Alison. Where did you get them.? 

Atherton {in surprise). I can’t tell you—and why 
should you ask.? 

Alison. Because I happen to have written them. 

Atherton. You are Alison Page.? 

Alison. I’m Alison Page. Evidently you know of 
me. 

Atherton. I couldn’t be Tom’s best friend without 
hearing of you, Miss Page. 

Alison. Then—tell me—who gave you those let¬ 
ters .? 

Gregory {coming forward). I’ll answer the ques¬ 
tion, Roger. (Atherton rises and steps hack of dav¬ 
enport.) This morning, Alison, in a hurried conversa¬ 
tion I had no time to explain to my friend why I hap¬ 
pened to be in this particular place; so I dropped the 
letters in his pocket knowing that they would immedi¬ 
ately enlighten him. The letters, Alison, I kept in the 
desk as a means of proving my identity when the time 
should come. 

Atherton {to Alison). Why did you meet me un¬ 
der an assumed name.? 

Alison. Because I thought you were Lawrence 
Thomas. Forgive the deception— 

Gregory. And move on—for just a few moments. 
By that time I can tell you just when I’ll need your 
services as best man. 

Atherton. That suits me all right. In the mean¬ 
time, am I to play the role of a stranger or of a friend.? 



102 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Gregory {placing hand on shoulder). Friend, Roger 
—the best friend I ever expect to have. And when you 
trot out into that little assembly you’re to tell them 
all about me—and who I am—and how I’ve been living 
here under another name in order to be near the girl 
I love. And while you’re about it, Roger— {with a 
glance at Alison) you might announce our engage¬ 
ment. (Alison rises indignantly.) 

Atherton {laughingly). I’ll do it. {Exit R.) 

xVlison {crossing to L.). If your effrontery were 
not so ludicrous—it would be—unbearable. {Turns 
hade.) 

Gregory. Since you left me a little while ago, Ali¬ 
son, I’ve been thinking it all over and I’ve come to the 
conclusion that the only method to use with you is that 
of the cave man. {Turns her around.) When he had 
selected his lady love, he seized her by the hair and 
used a club to advantage. She at least had no doubt 
in regard to his intentions. 

Alison. Don’t be brutal, Tom. , 

Gregory. You’ve been the brutal one. 

Alison {as she crosses to settee). I suppose you’re 
meditating revenge for all the corporal punishments 
I’ve heaped upon you. {Seats herself.) 

Gregory {standing at hack of settee). All the cor¬ 
poral punishments in the world wouldn’t have hurt me 
half so much as that one unfounded suspicion. {Goes 
hack of settee and sits at her right.) 

Alison. I’m sorry for that, Tom—I truly am— 
and way down in my heart I didn’t believe it. Some per¬ 
verse little imp prompted me to say what I did. 

Gregory. That perverse little imp is responsible 
for a great deal of trouble—but his career of useful¬ 
ness is ended. {Pauses.) Alison.? 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


103 


Alison. Yes.^ 

Gregory. You love Lawrence Gregory Thomas— 
oh, you’ve told me so—and you love Thomas Gregory. 
The mental strain to which I’ve subjected you has been 
enough to torment the mind of even a literary genius. 
Now that all the pieces in the puzzle have been put 
together—aren’t you sport enough to own up.^ 

Alison. Why didn’t you write 

Gregory. I did—this morning—and sent it from 
the village. As to the last three months—how could 
I hold a pen when you had given me a sprained wrist 
Anyway—what was the use when I was busy with the 
experiment of meeting you under ordinary conditions 

Alison. Well—is that all.^ 

Gregory. Just one thing more. {Takes box from 
pocket.) Hidden away in your letters in that desk was 
—this. {Displays ring.) I bought it in Paris—and I’ve 
been waiting all this time to give it to you. 

Alison. You must have been—sure. 

Gregory. I was. You must remember, Alison, that 
you quite revealed j^our heart in those letters. 

Alison. But haven’t you learned by this time that 
a literary woman—as it pleases you to call me—does 
not necessarily mean what she writes.'^ {Telephone 
rings. She crosses to desk, seats herself and puts re¬ 
ceiver to ear.) 

Gregory {following her). Don’t say that. 

Alison. And haven’t you also learned—that I’m an 
exception to the rule.'^ 

Gregory {sitting on arm of chair and putting his 
arms around her). Say that again. I won’t let you 
go until you do. 

Alison. I don’t want you to let me go. Tom, I’m 
crazily in love with you— {into the telephone) I’m not 



104 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


talking to you! (Puts down receiver.) And you’d bet¬ 
ter put on that ring before that cross old man in the 
telephone interrupts us again. 

Gregory (as he slips on the ring). Alison— dear — 
(kisses her). 

Alison (taking up receiver). To whom do you wish 
to speak? (To Gregory.) Tom, isn’t it heavenly not 
to be quarreling? (Into telephone.) I—beg—your— 
pardon!—Mr. Winton?—Mr. Robert Winton? I’ll call 
him. (To Gregory.) What a horrid, impatient old 

Enter Robert from R. 

Robert. Hello, there! Is tliis telephone call the one 
I’ve been expecting? (As Gregory moves quickly away 
from Alison.) What makes you break away like that? 
Don’t you suppose everybody in the next room knows 
what’s happened? (Takes Gregory’s hand.) Congrat¬ 
ulations, Gregory—or Thomas—or whatever your 
stage name is—we’re proud to know you. And as to 
you, Alison— 

Alison. He’s going into the matrimonial noose with 
his eyes wide open. So you can’t say a thing if I 
strangle him. 

Robert. Run on, you two — they’re waiting for 3^ou 
in the other room. (Exeunt Gregory and Alison at 
R. Robert goes to telephone and seats himself.) This 
is Robert Winton. Oh— Graham? . . . I’m sorry you 
had so much trouble getting me. . . . Well, what 

news? . . . Say that again. . . . That’s final, is it? 
(Anne appears at R.) You don’t know what a load 
that takes from my mind. . . . The twenty-five thou¬ 
sand? ... I raised it easily. . . . Then I’ll see you 
tomorrow^ and straighten out the matter. . . . Good¬ 
bye. (Hangs up receiver.) 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


105 


Anne {coming to him). Bob, is it good news? 

Robert {meeting her at C.). The best of news. 
{Draws her to him.) 

Anne. Tell me. 

Robert. Graham has realized enougli to reimburse 
Dick and to start us all over again. It’s going to be 
a happy Christmas after all. 

Anne. It isn’t going to be. It already is. Bob? 

Robert. Yes? 

Anne. Does it mean that we start—in the little 
house? 

Robert. Do you really want it? 

Anne. I really want it. 

Robert. But it is so different from what I planned. 

Anne. My dreams have been wiser than your plans, 
Bob. 

Robert. And you’ll be happy there? 

Anne. Happy? {As he kisses her.) Wait and see. 

Robert. Then there isn’t a regret to mar the day. 

Anne {laughingly). Except my pearls. I can’t 
quite be reconciled to their loss. 

Enter Dick from C. in F. 

Dick {coming down C.). May Bobby go for a little 
ride with Aimee and me? I’ve an errand in the city and 
thought a little fresh air might calm their rising spirits. 

Anne. They need to be calmed. {Crosses to settee.) 
Of course he may go. {Seats herself.) But why a trip 
to the city on this particular morning? 

Dick. I’m a little nervous about that money and 
want to put it in a safe place. 

Anne. But—you foolish boy—what bank is open 
on Christmas morning? 

Dick {standing back of desk chair). I telephoned 
Allen and he offered to go with me, and to place the 



106 


' THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


package in the vault until I can regularly deposit it 
tomorrow. 

Robert. That’s a different proposition. (Sits on 
settee.) 

Anne. Dick, did you hide that money in the secret 
panel as we told you to do.? 

Dick. I forgot, Anne. I had it on my mind and 
fully intended to make the transfer—but, as you know, 
unusual events transpired. I lay down on my couch 
to think it over, fell asleep and didn’t wake until this 
morning. 

Robert. Has the detective any definite theory con¬ 
cerning the robberies.? 

Dick. Only that they were committed by some one 
in the house. That seems ridiculous to me. 

Robert. And yet, Dick, an outsider had no oppor¬ 
tunity to lay hands upon Doris’ bracelet—and Anne 
declares that nobody could have entered her room with¬ 
out being seen from the opposite door. 

Dick. Pretty perplexing! Well—whoever the cul¬ 
prit may be—there’s no use in putting temptation in 
his way. (Goes to desk, unlocks drawer. As he realizes 
that the money is gone, he stands as if dazed.) 

Robert (after a moment's pause). What’s the mat¬ 
ter, Dick.? 

Dick. It’s gone! (Robert crosses to him.) 

Anne. Gone? (Rises.) 

Dick. Quite gone. Rather takes one’s breath, 
doesn’t it.? 

Anne. And the drawer was locked.? 

Dick. The drawer was locked. I don’t know what 
to think of it. 

Robert. It’s someone in this liouse, Dick. Call the 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


107 


servants. (Dick crosses to push button. Anne draws 
Robert to R.) 

Anne. Bob—when you telephoned—what did you 
mean by saying that the twenty-five thousand came— 
easily ? 

Robert. I told you that I needed just that sum to 
tide me over—didn’t I.? Well— {suddenly )—Great 
heavens, Anne—you don’t think that I took Dick’s 
money ? 

Anne. Where did you get it.?^ 

Robert. From Gregory. He knew of my predica¬ 
ment—and volunteered to help. I telephoned Graham 
early this morning. (Dick returns to desk.) 

Enter Dennis from R. 

Dick. Dennis, something very strange and very un¬ 
fortunate has happened. I am hoping that you can 
help us to solve the difficulty. 

Dennis. I hope I can, sir. 

Dick. Mrs. Winton’s pearl necklace mysteriously 
disappeared yesterday; later on Mrs. Thorne missed 
her bracelet; and now I’ve just discovered that twenty- 
five thousand dollars have been taken from my desk. 

Dennis. I’ve been expecting that very thing, Mr. 
Dick. 

Dick. What do you mean.? 

Dennis. That I’ve been spotting this here robber 
ever since he landed in this part of the country; and I 
pretty nearly caught him in the act of getting that 
very money. 

Dick. Caught him.? 

Dennis. Has it struck you funny, Mr. Dick, that 
the robberies round about here began just about the 
time a certain guy moved in the neighborhood.? 

Dick. I don’t follow you. 



108 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Dennis. Well, they did. And then the fellow let 
up for awliile—and now he’s begun again. Niglit be¬ 
fore last the Hamilton’s was robbed—and who was 
there to dinner? This same guy. Last night Mrs. 
Thorne was dancing with him when she missed her 
bracelet. 

Dick. Dennis—whom do you mean? 

Dennis. Mean? Why, Mr. Gregory, of course. 

Dick. That’s enough. Mr. Gregory is my friend, 
a guest in this house and— 

Dennis. Well, how are you going to explain this., 
Mr. Dick? Last night I followed him in here^—^and saw 
him leaning over that desk trying to open the drawer; 
and I would have had him in a jiffy if Miss Alison 
hadn’t stepped out from behind them curtains and 
said—“Have a cigarette, Tom.” 

Dick. Listen— 

Dennis. And what made him signal ]\Ir. Atherton 
not to recognize him? 

Dick. Your surmise is all wrong, Dennis. Mr. 
Gregory happens to be a gentleman. Ask Kate and 
Fifi to come here. 

Dennis. Yes, Mr. Dick. {Exit R.) 

Robert. What do you think of that story? 

Dick. Ridiculous, of course. 

Anne. Dick—IMr. Gregory’s room is next to mine; 
Doris had been dancing with him; and—tell him. Bob, 
what you told me a moment ago. 

Robert. That’s not a kind nor a generous thing 
to do, Anne. 

Anne. But Dick must know. 

Robert. Then —{going to Dick) last night Greg¬ 
ory .loaned me twenty-five thousand dollars. 

Dick. A mere coincidence. The story of Lawrence 




THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


109 


Thomas as we have just heard it from Atherton should 
place Thomas Gregory far above the shadoAv of a sus¬ 
picion. 

Anne. Naturally. But his explanation might help. 

Dick. I wouldn’t mar his happiness—and Alison’s— 
■for all the explanations in the world. 

As Dennis enters from R. 

Dick. Well, Dennis.'^ 

Dennis (in agitation), Kate’s gone, sir. 

Dick. Gone? 

Dennis. Cook saw her leave about a half hour ago 
—coat, hat and—see here, Mr. Dick, Kate didn’t have 
nothing to do with that robbery—I swear it. 

Dick. Of course she didn’t. (To Anne.) Did you 
send Kate on an errand, Anne.^ 

Anne. No. She had duties for all morning. (Noise 
off stage of approaching footsteps and sound of scuf¬ 
fling.) That’s a strange noise. 

Enter Kate from R. dragging a reluctant Fifi. 
Each shows signs of conflict. 

Kate (coming down R. dragging Fifi). I’m beg¬ 
ging your pardon, Mrs. Winton, for blowing in like 
this, but I’ve got her and if you look in this bag I 
guess you’ll find the jewels. (Holds out handbag.) 

Anne. Hand me the bag, Dennis. (Dennis takes 
the hag, hands it to Anne, who opens it, examines the 
contents and pulls out a string of pearls and a brace¬ 
let.) My pearls. Bob— (he takes them) and Doris’ 
bracelet. Now tell us about it, Kate. (Fifi and Kate 
stand R. 2 E., Anne next, then Robert, with Dennis 
and Dick near desk.) 

Kate. I’ve been suspicious all along—ever since I 
laid eyes on her smirky little smile and her pussy cat 



no 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


snooping—and {angrily') her silly French ways with 
Dennis—and me being engaged to him! And when I 
knew your pearls were gone, Mrs. Winton, and that 
nobody could have gone into the room, I set my wits 
to work. 

Anne {excitedly). Go on. 

Kate. The windows open out on a long porch that 
runs to the back of the hall; and when I looked out on 
that porch, what did I see but the print of those idiotic 
little high-heeled slippers that she always wears. It 
had been snowing you know, and she had come through 
the window. {Pauses.) 

Dick {impatiently). Yes.^ 

Kate. Then I remembered that just before Mrs. 
Thorne’s bracelet disappeared, Fifi had brought a scarf 
to her and had put it around her shoulders. So—today 
—when I saw her sneaking out the back way, I took 
after her—and well—here we are. 

Dick. Has she had a hand in the neighborhood 
robberies ? 

Kate. Good gracious, Mr. Dick, didn’t you read 
in the morning’s paper that he had been caught {To 
Dennis.) Now, Dennis, maybe you’ll leave poor Mr. 
Gregory alone. (Dennis turns and walks toward back 
of stage.) 

Dick. I don’t know how to thank you, Kate. You’ve 
saved not only the jewels but our peace of mind. {To 
Fifi.) As for you, Fifi,—here, Anne, you talk to her. 
I get my French twisted. 

Fifi {as Anne steps forward). There’s no reason 
for you to use French for I’m just as American as you 
are. Please finish with me for I’m caught with the 
goods and I plead guilty. If I hadn’t been new at my 
job I would have made a getaway. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


111 


Dick. Since this is a first offence, I am quite sure 
that Mrs. Winton will agree with me when I say that 
we are willing to overlook it if you will return the 
money which you took from my desk. 

Fin. The money I don’t understand. 

Dick. I think you do. Tell me what you have done 
with it—and it means freedom to you. 

Fin. But I took nothing from the desk. I am tell¬ 
ing you the truth. 

Dick. I can’t let you go until I have the money. 

Fin. Please believe me, Mr. Winton. 

Dick. Dennis—take her into the other room until 
we call for her. (Dennis crosses hack of stage to Fin’s 
right.) 

Kate. If you don’t mind my suggesting it, Mr. 
Dick, I’d better do the watching. Dennis ain’t to be 
trusted with any French croquette. {Exeunt Kate and 
Fin at R.) 

Anne. Do you think that Kate can manage that 
girl, Dick.? 

Dennis. Please, Mrs. Winton, if you don’t mind 
my suggesting it—I think I can manage Kate. 

Dick. Then—you’re excused. {Exit Dennis at R.) 
Well—what do you think of her story.? (Anne and 
Robert seat themselves on settee.) 

Robert. It’s true. She hasn’t the money. 

Dick. Then—who has.? 

Enter Bobby from C. in F. 

Bobby. I thought you were going out in the car. 
Uncle Dick. Aimee and I have been waiting for you. 
{Goes to Dick.) 

Dick. We were, old fellow, but something has hap¬ 
pened to keep us at home. 

Bobby {going to Anne). What’s happened, mother.? 



112 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Anne. Uncle Dick can’t find the money that he 
wanted to take to the bank. 

Bobby. Has he forgotten where he put it.^ 

Anne. Something like that. 

Bobby {going to Robert). Uncle Dick’s joking, 
isn’t he, daddy 

Robert. I’m afraid not, son. 

Bobby. But he knows where the money is—and so 
do I. 

Anne. Don’t let your imagination run away with 
you, dear. 

Bobby {running to Dick). Uncle Dick—don’t you 
really know where it is.^ 

Dick {sitting in chair at desk). I’m afraid I don’t, 
Bobby. 

Bobby. Then you’ve forgotten. Shall I tell you 
all about it? 

Anne. Bobby, dear, you don’t know what you’re 
saying. 

Bobby. But I do know. Uncle Dick, please let me 
tell. 

Dick. Of course you may tell. 

Bobby {perching on Dick’s knee). Last night Aimee 
and I came down to look for Santa Claus. It was late 
—and the house was just as still as— {hesitates) —well 
it was awfully still. We were standing right over there 
{points to R.) when somebody came up to the desk— 
and sat down—and opened the drawer. And Aimee 
got scared—but I went right up to him and I said 
“Are you Santa Claus?” Just like that. 

Robert. Then what happened? 

Bobby. He didn’t answer—but he got up with his 
hands full of money—and he walked right by us—and 
we saw who he was. 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


113 


Anne. And who was he.^ 

Bobby {looking at Dick). Who was he? Why, 
Lhicle Dick, of course. 

Anne. But—Bobby— 

Robert. Hush, dear. {To Bobby.) What did 
Uncle Dick do tben.^ 

Bobby. He went over tliere— {runs to mantel as 
Dick rises in excitement) touched a button and put the 
money away in a little cubby hole. 

Anne {rising). The secret panel! (Robert rises.) 

Bobby. And we didn’t wait any longer but ran up¬ 
stairs before he found us out. 

Anne. Dick—you were walking in your sleep! 

Dick. Do you suppose it’s possible.^ I had it on 
my mind to do this very thing. I wonder—if subcon¬ 
sciously— 

Bobby {impatiently). Don’t talk about it. Look 
and see. {Runs to Dick.) 

(Dick goes to the mantel^ touches the button and the 
panel rolls hack. He thrusts his hands into the aperture 
—and turns.) 

Dick. It’s here—safe and sound. 

Bobby. Well, didn’t I tell you so.^^ {Runs to Dick.) 
Now may we go for a ride.? 

Curtain. 

Scene H., Candle-lighting Time. 

Curtain falls for a moment to indicate the passage of 
the afternoon. It rises upon Dick on davenport with 
Aimee in his lap. 

Enter Ruth from R. 

Ruth {as she lights the candles on the mantel). 
Candle-lighting time, Aimee. 



114 


THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


Aimee. But I don’t want to go to bed. 

Dick. Who said anything about bed.? Why we’re 
going to put you in a boat of poppy leaves and set 
you afloat upon a river of dreams. And by and by 
you’ll come to Shut-eye Town. 

Ruth. And, perhaps, Uncle Dick has a story for 
you. 

Dick. Will you listen to the story, Ruth.? 

Ruth. Of course I will. {Sits hy him on davenport.) 

Dick. Because it is—for you. {To Aimee.) All 
ready.? {Pauses.) Well—once there was a chap who 
walked with his head in the clouds. 

Aimee. What is a chap. Uncle Dicky.? 

Dick. Somebody—just like Uncle Dicky. And this 
chap had the idea that someday he would find what he 
called the real thing—though he didn’t know just what 
the real thing would be. One day he caught sight of a 
bright and beautiful star and he thought his search 
was ended; for the star was what the world calls fame. 
But he couldn’t reach it and he discovered that—al¬ 
though it was wonderful to think about—it couldn’t 
bring him real contentment. And then he forgot to 
think about himself—for a sword was thrust into his 
hand and he was told to fight for a great and noble 
truth; but even service did not prove the real thing. 
Then one day—he followed a golden butterfly, thinking 
it would lead him to the land of joy—but the butterfly 
had no soul. {Pauses.) 

Aimee. Go on. Uncle Dicky. 

Dick. Suddenly, the Spirit of Christmas touched his 
eyes—and he found the happiness which was—nearest 
him. {Puts his arm around Ruth.) For he saw a 
friend—the friend who had always cheered and com¬ 
forted him in her quiet way; who had understood him 



THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 


115 


as no other could ever understand; and he knew that 
in her love, her faith and her comradeship he had found 
the real thing, after all. So he went to her and he said 
—“Can you forget the years and years of blindness— 
and remember only that—I love you.?” 

Aimee. And what did the friend say. Uncle Dicky.? 

Dick. What did she say, Ruth.? 

Ruth {as she lays her head on his shoulder). She 
said—“Oh, Dick—dear Dick—try me and see.” 


Curtain. 



An Early Bird 

BY 

Walter Ben Hare 


C OMEDY, in 3 acts; 7 males, 7 females. Time, 2^4 
hours. Scenes: Private office of a railroad presi¬ 
dent; room in a cheap boarding house at Flagg 
Corners. Act I.—A bird in the tree. Act II.—A bird 
in the bush. Act III.—A bird in the hand. 


CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Cyrus B. Kilbuck-President of the P. D. Q. Railroad 

Tony Kilbuck.His Son, Just Out of College 

Mr. Barnaby Bird.The Boss of Flagg County 

Mr. Mulberry.Chief Attorney for the Road 

Bruce Ferguson.A Clerk in the General Offices 

Artie.An Office Boy 

Mr. Perry Allen.A Young Gentleman Farmer 

Jessamine Lee.The Girl 

Mrs. Van Dyne.An Agent for the P. D. Q. Railroad 

Imogene McCarty.A Stenographer 

Mrs. Beavers.From Flagg Corners 

' Rosa Bella Beavers.The Belle of Flagg Corners 

Mrs. Perry Allen.Jassamine’s Chum 

Dilly.Mrs. Beavers’ Hired Girl 


“You see that door? On the outside it says Pull, but 
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pull to make my way. only push! And it has made me 
a millionaire. Understand? Push!” Thus Kilbuck 
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With unlimited nerve and a light heart, Tony starts out 
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girl he loves. On the rough journey he meets one 
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introduced by a coquettish stenographer, a fresh office 
boy, a country belle and her mother, a landlady of a 
Flagg Corners hotel and last but by no means least, 
Dilly, the hired girl. Price, 35 Cents. 


T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO 


LBFe’ZO 

















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